


What Happens on Harm's Way

by KassiopeiaX



Series: Flaere Hunter [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anal Sex, Blood Kink, Blood and Gore, Body Modification, Brothels, Comedy, Crimes & Criminals, Drugs, Dystopian, Fantasy, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Forced Prostitution, Gang Rape, Here's where to find them, Horrific Beasts, Hurt/Comfort, I'm having an existential crisis just writing this, M/M, Murder Mystery, Nihilism, Porn With Plot, Regressively progressive, Romance, Schizophrenia, Science Fiction, Serial Killers, Strippers & Strip Clubs, The Human Rayce, Torture, Vigilantism, diversity, kiss already jeez
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-22
Packaged: 2019-04-07 11:47:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14080236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KassiopeiaX/pseuds/KassiopeiaX
Summary: The terms of Flaere's contract are simple: fight freakishly modified opponents in the ring and win, or lose and face punishment prostituting himself on the lawless streets. When he is taken in by the magnanimous monsieur of a high-class brothel, he almost believes his life is about to change for the better. Unfortunately, his psychotic second personality has other plans when he starts killing johns instead. But Flaere is about to discover that in this blood-soaked bordello, he isn't the only one with secrets... Sex, strippers and murder: just another night in Harm's Way!(Underage with teens. Plot-driven smut, please read the tags for triggers!)





	1. Stay in the Fight

_ Heat.  _ All I feel is heat, from the adrenaline coursing through my veins to the sweat rolling down my face. All I hear is the bloodthirsty crowd screaming at the top of its lungs. I have to block out the horrible things they're saying, the horrible things they're telling my opponent to do to me - why do they want those things to happen to me? My coach's advice - yes - I play it back in my head:  _ keep your center of gravity low - arms tucked close - protect your head - footwork loose - JUST THROW THE MATCH, GODDAMMIT FLAERE -  _ not that last part...

All the advice flies out my ear anyway when the first punch makes contact, breaking my defenses. The sight of my opponent, Mamba, with his reptilian slit eyes and wild black hair - not to mention tight abs and freakishly pumped arms - would make any sane man run in the opposite direction. But I already know I'm not very sane. 

Alarms go off in my head, and then I'm on the backpedal, blocking over and over again, only to be knocked back each time. Mamba strikes like his namesake: using lightning fast, pointed jabs to deliver maximum impact to a concentrated area.  _ It's working.  _ A brutal bodyshot drops my arms for the critical moment he takes to land a blow to the head. 

My neck twists sharply to the side as my face explodes with pain and for a moment I think he broke it - but no - I'm still on my feet. Barely. I stumble away, collapsing against the ropes. The entire side of my face throbs agonizingly; I can already feel it starting to swell. No air -  _ no air...  _ No matter how hard I gasp for it.  _ You have to stand up. You have to fight,  _ desperate thoughts flicker through the haze. Sweat drips from the tips of my orange hair into the heaving crowd. So many people. Contorted faces melt into a scary mass of flesh in my dizzy vision. 

" _ Circus freak! _ " Mamba taunts, then bursts out laughing. "What should I do to this miserable slut when I take him down for the count?" The crowd eagerly chimes in like a death panel,

"Break his fucking arm!" 

" _ Kill him! _ "

"Fuck him in the ass!" The highlights. Mamba laughs again, hungrily licking his lips with an abnormally long tongue split down the middle and lined at the sides with silver hoop piercings.

"Oh, I like that idea..." 

Which one? My skin crawls. 

"Let's get this over with, circus freak. You know you're just gonna end up taking my dick sooner or later... Save yourself a concussion." I think it's too late for that... His voice gets closer, stirring my skin into goosebumps. 

_ "Tag out and let me handle this."  _ But not nearly as close as that voice in my head: the one that only I can hear. Hunter. I tussle with him for control, gripping my head. 

"No, I can't fight both of you right now..."

_ "You're going to get us KILLED." _

"I can _do_ this!" I whip around in a rage, catching Mamba in the jaw with a roundhouse kick. He staggers, shocked. I-I got him- I follow up with a right hook, then a devastating left, sending him crashing to the mat. Hunter's influence in my head is withdrawing, letting exhilaration rush into its place. I did it? _I did it!_

Something dry and scaly wraps around my leg. I look down to see his black, reptile tail wound around my ankle. My heart sinks as fast as it rose in my chest. How have I fought him so many time and yet still forget that he has a tail? It's because I'm an  _ idiot _ .

The ceiling and floor switch places as Mamba rips me off balance. I hit the red mat with no time to react when he roughly flips me over, pinning me to the floor. There's fury in his golden eyes as he raises a fist.

"M-Mamba-!" He doesn't wait to hear me out before laying into me. The first punch to the head is enough to shut down any hope I had of turning this around. Everything after that is overkill.

Pain refuses to register anymore; all I feel now is a dull, constant ache like the pounding of a drum, all I see is the blurry outline of my opponent on top of me. I hear the bloodthirsty cheering of the crowd. I know who the favorite in this match is - but then, I always know that. Mamba's fingers dig into my hair as he yanks my face close to his. 

"You should have taken a dive,  _ circus freak _ , and I might have gone easy on you." The irony of someone like  _ him  _ calling  _ me  _ a freak makes me laugh, but it comes out slow and not-all-there. "I'm going to enjoy this..." He runs that disgusting, wet tongue along the side of my face. 

"Please don't..." I whimper. I don't know why I bother. 

Mamba strips off my shorts in one swift movement, the air that I thought was so hot before feels frigid now on my exposed crotch. He lets me drop back on the mat, lowering his lustful gaze to more interesting features... I gasp for air as he runs his hands down my heaving chest, brutally caressing every bruise he gave me in the fight. 

"Let's see just how flexible you really are." Seizing both my calves, he folds my legs all the way up by my head. Mamba whistles lewdly at the sight of me splayed wide open. "You look tight." Tears fill my eyes, not because it hurts - my body was made to move that way - but in anticipation of what's going to happen next. I hear shutters flashing and hide my face in my hands. Something knocks at my door, but it doesn't feel like cock. 

I prop myself up on my elbows, looking down in horror at the scaly tip of his tail teasing my entrance.

"What are you doing?" I quail. 

"Giving the people what they came here for." He grins, baring canines that look more like fangs. I throw my head back, crying out as he violates me with his tail. It feels so wrong, so horrible encroaching deeper inside. His scales are smooth and hard, and his appendage is flexible, creating strange sensations as it feels its way through my tunnels. 

"Stop!" I gasp, shaking my head desperately. 

"You're in no position to negotiate." He means that literally as he thrusts. Perverse pleasure travels up from below, meeting and mingling with pain somewhere in the middle of my chest. My cries are reduced to soft panting as my eyes glaze over, staring at the white light overhead until it burns spots into my retinas. Mamba's face blocks it out as he crawls on top of me. I shudder when he drags his reptilian tongue over my neck, tickling it before moving on to my face. Fangs and a split tongue hanging tauntingly between them. For a horrible moment, I imagine him swallowing me whole like an anaconda.   

Mamba devours my lips in a hungry kiss instead. His freakish tongue fills my mouth, leaving almost no room for my own. As he explores my cavern with the sticky, prehensile probe, the hoop piercings along the side of his tongue clip the inner walls of my mouth. I actually choke when it gets too far back and cough it back up. My eyes water - I can't breathe again. 

Meanwhile, I feel his tail pulling back out, only to be replaced with something bigger. His cock is as monstrous as the rest of him. Unreasonably big, more silver hoops stud the underside: one for each inch of meat and he's just showing off. I sob into his mouth in agony as he breaches me another time. 

"Oh god..." Mamba moans. My protesting hole just wants him  _ out,  _ sending desperate SOS signals to an overworked brain. "Circus freak..." Mamba hisses, his golden eyes flare and then he sinks his fangs into my neck. The roaring of our audience buries a scream.

The taste of blood flips a switch inside him, making him ramp up his thrusts. Mamba undulates like a snake, jackhammering my depths. His piercings rib me relentlessly. People are taking pictures and videos that I know are going to end up on the internet. I can't look up my name without being mired in pages and pages of porn- should I change it? 

I hate this so why do I feel so good at the same time, gasping and moaning out loud as I rocket toward climax.  

"Mamba! Mamba!" I cry out in a raw voice. He latches down tighter in response, straightening my weakening legs to finish strong at full hilt. 

Mamba climaxes inside me, leaving behind a warm and full feeling. Then I feel strangely cold in his wake as he pulls. He snickers, looking down at me splayed out on floor, panting like a bitch and leaking like a whore. Mamba grips my face in one hand and licks my cheek.

"Call me for a rematch anytime, circus freak." He drops me to swagger out of the ring into the fold of his adoring fans, adjusting his boxing shorts as he goes.  

I pick myself up, sniffling softly. My mouth tastes metallic with blood and everything hurts from my face to the dull throbbing between my legs. I stumble from the ring, feeling broken in more ways than one. I lost again...

_ "Only because you didn't let ME fight,"  _ Hunter pipes up. 

"You would have killed him," I whisper, staring at an orange spiral of my hair hanging before my face. 

_ "Isn't that better than the price for losing?" _

"A victory isn't worth a life." 

_ "But neither is worth anything."  _

"Shut up, shut up!" I hiss, straightening up as my coach storms this way. 

Coach Vitali Ruger stands at over six feet of unforgiving muscle. He wears his metallic silver hair in a short flare of a ponytail. His sculpted face has sharp edges and a strong jawline, currently set in a stern expression. 

"Flaere," he addresses me in a deep baritone that seems to reverberate from his chest. "I told you to throw the match." 

"I can fight," I insist, but he must not find me convincing with my bloody face and busted lip. 

"You weren't  _ hired _ to fight!" he hisses, leaning in close to my face with his muscular arms folded. "You're  _ mat candy _ ." I wince at the word.  _ Mat candy _ , attractive and usually effeminate fighters who throw their matches so the audience can get their rocks off watching them be dominated and humiliated. We are not fighters, just glorified porn stars. 

"Besides, you weren't even made to fight." Coach Ruger lifts my arm by the wrist, showing me my own lean muscles, strong but nowhere near as well-developed as his or even Mamba's. "You were made to be a sex toy." He lifts my leg up next, folding it by my head with the kind of flexibility that a primadonna would envy. I keep my balance perfectly the entire time and stare bitterly at an inconvenient feature which makes me a target. 

"I still want to try..." I murmur. 

Coach Ruger drops my leg again with a sigh.

"Look kid, you know I don't like doing this to you. It's just how the business works. It's how your  _ contract  _ works." I stare at my feet. Wiggle a toe. "You've got a long night ahead of you," he says. He taps out aether blue from a plastic bag onto the table and cuts the blue powder into lines with his credit card. "Sniff it up, kid. It'll make things a little easier." The drugs quieten Hunter, if nothing else.

_ "You'd rather be a cheap aether whore than share the spotlight with me?"  _ Hunter taunts me. I stare at the lines forlornly, wondering if he's right and maybe I should just-  _ No.  _ I steel myself and snort lines through a rolled up dollar bill. The high is better than lucidity. And sacrifice is better than bloodshed. 

_ "You're such a fascinating little frustration, Flaere..."  _ Hunter muses.  _ And you, Hunter, you're a monster. _

 

###

 

In my drugged state, the damp, dingy street of Harm's Way contorts into a toxic wonderland filled with sulfurous yellow light and gnashing teeth of broken glass.  _ Mythical beasts _ : prostitutes flaunting fantastical hides made from jewels, feathers, fishnet and fur, sometimes nothing but a cheshire smile to tempt the attention of hunters. I don't know why they try so hard when they're so beautiful anyway. My strategy is much more simple: I wait to be noticed. It doesn't take long in a forest full of predators. 

Faces loom in and out focus; each one unpacks a new feeling to show me. Pleasure.  _ Pain _ . Even sadness when one of them calls me beautiful. I begin to cry.  _ Hilarity  _ as another calls me disgusting but takes me all the same. I abruptly burst out laughing, chasing him off midway. None of them stay long anyway.  _ But I was just getting to know you.  _ Some tell me they love me. Some call out to God. I start to forget: are we in church or in hell? 

Roaring engines tear up our paradise. Whores and client run, screaming and knocking things over in their haste. Alcohol washes over my feet in a cold wave. The denizens of Harm's Way filter away through connecting alleys too narrow for the police motorcycles to follow them.  _ Police motorcycles.  _ Oh no. One of the officers tosses a smoke bomb through the broken window of a bar. White smoke overflows onto the street. Gunshots: one fires indiscriminately in the wake of fleeing beasts, laughing as he watches them trip and fall all over each other. 

_ I need to run.  _ I stumble, but I'm too late as a motorcycle cuts me off, curving neatly in front of me and nearly running me over in the process. Whipping around, I see three more circling me languidly. The machines growl like a pack of lions. The officers' faces are concealed by bike helmets. They wear leather jackets and pants, all black except for their silver badges - they are the reapers of the backstreets.

"Well, well, well, what do we have here. A cute, lost little whore?" one of them says, sounding amused, "You know, I could put you away for a long time for that."

"I'm sorry," I whimper, dropping to my knees with my hands behind my head. 

The officer hops off his motorcycle. His boots crunch through broken glass. He tears off his helmet and tucks it under his arm. I gather up the courage to look into his eyes, but when I do, I lose my nerve again. Black. A black so dark and so deep that light can't escape it.

"Do you know who I am?" His voice is where he hides it - the spark of amused light that his eyes are missing. When I don't reply, he puts words in my mouth. "You know me. Damon. Damon Black. Son of the police commissioner?"  

I slowly shake my head from side to side.

The officer suddenly bursts out laughing; he drops his head, shaking out soft peaks of dark hair. 

"I'm sorry," I apologize again on instinct as if apologies breed sympathy. 

"I just think it's funny." A hand slides over his face. A black eye peers through the gaps at me. "That someone like  _ you  _ doesn't know who  _ I  _ am. Oh well. One more thing to teach you."  

Damon shoves me down on my hands and knees; I barely flinch when they come down on sharp gravel and bits of glass, heart thudding wildly. 

I sense his hand in my back pocket - he pulls out a wad of banknotes. "I'll just be keeping this as evidence." And shoves it into his own. My heart sinks. Coach is going to be so upset with me... That's when Damon pulls down my shorts.

"What are you doing?" I didn't ask because I don't know. 

"Cavity search, bitch." I hear his zipper come down and feel his meat between my cheeks. "You have the right to remain silent," he says. "But I'd rather hear you scream." I grant his wish when he pushes himself in all at once in an already abused hole, ending in a ragged sob. His girthy tool stretches me to incredible limits. Damon thrusts deep as I let out tiny sounds that make no sense to anyone but my attacker - he replies under his breath,

"Oh  _ fuck  _ yes." Gloved hands roam my bare skin, and one finds my cock, squeezing sharply. 

"Ow!" I cry out; he just snickers.

Bent over and taking it in the ass, I find the other officers vandalizing a liquor stall, smashing the case to liberate expensive treasures.

"Alright!" one of them cheers when he discovers a ziploc of aether blue. "Hey Damon, you want some of this?" he calls to the officer bent over me. 

"No thanks," he replies, holding my hips in place as he delivers. "I want to be  _ all present _ for this..." I let out another whimper. A man who won't take aether is a man who knows exactly what he's doing... And does it because he enjoys every aspect of the act itself. 

"Suit yourself." The others crowd around for a cut. 

I let out a gasp of relief when Damon climaxes inside, pulling out in a backwash of cum. Finally, finally, he leaves me. Damon leans back against his motorcycle, accepting a beer from one of his friends. I may not know who he is, but I do know what. The type of man who drinks cheap beer when champagne is pouring. 

_ "Nihilist,"  _ Hunter abruptly provides the word, jarring me to the realization that I am sober enough to hear from him again. 

He doesn't seem to want to be present either way when one of the other officers yanks me up on my knees by the hair.

"Blow me, sllllut-" he slurs, a little buzzed and a little high. Maybe... Maybe if I just do what they say, they'll let me go. Not that I had the choice to refuse. I take the officer in my mouth, helpless. He moans as I bob on him obediently, fingers running through my hair. Then he gets greedy, thrusting to the back of my throat. I cough; my eyes watering at once. He tastes like sweat and piss and I want to gag him back up but I force myself to do just the opposite and admit him into the sticky depths of my throat. He rewards me with a louder moan.

Another cock peeks into my field of vision, demanding attention. A second officer wants in. I stroke him as I bob on the first one, struggling to keep coordinated. I just want this to  _ end _ . Believing my own theory that it will go faster if I do, I pick up the pace, sucking on one as I pump the other. I hear good noises: moaning and swearing. They'll be done soon. 

They'll be done. 

The grip in my hair tightens. I peek through the slits of my eyelids and see Damon eyeing me over the curved glass body of a beer bottle. He doesn't so much as blink those eyes too dark. So dark they must belong to a demon. My skin crawls. And then I really shudder when the officers climax.

_ Gross...  _ I wipe my face with the back of my hand, grimacing. Ominous footsteps. Damon is back. 

"Can I go now? Please?" I dare to whisper. 

"I don't think so, slut..." My back hits the ground where he pushed me. He signals to his buddies, and suddenly, there's one on each side and one behind me with his arm locked around my neck.

"Let go of me!" I scream, starting to panic, but there's no one around to hear it. 

"You're so fucking pretty," says Damon, letting his gaze wander over my exposed body.  

"He's flexible too," one of the officers notes, testing my leg by rolling it in its socket. 

"I wonder... Just how flexible..." My eyes widen as Damon brandishes his empty beer bottle with a vile grin. 

"N-No," I beg, " _ No! _ " Then I scream when he starts trying to shove it in, strangling it by the neck. 

My body does everything it can to reject the demonic cop's advances, but he powers through, relentless. 

"It doesn't fit! It doesn't fit..." I sob.

"Oh, it'll fit," he says irreverently, "I just don't know if you'll live through it." Cold glass breaches my dangerously stretched ring.

"Please," I gasp aloud. 

"You think anyone is going to miss one nameless, faceless whore on Harm's Way?" Damon comments. He doesn't even look at me, focused on the steady progress he's making. My chest heaves in agony. "That's where you and I are different." His voice trickles in my ear like cold water. "Some people are just born important. And others... Are  _ worthless _ ." He drives the bottle in. 

My entire body arches against the men holding me down. He tore me. Hot blood spills between my legs and drips. But he's right. No one will notice another bloodstain on the filthy pavement of Harm's Way. The excitement in his eyes fades. He's bored of me. The bottle withdraws from my broken entrance, streaked with blood. 

The police, more criminal than the actual criminals, leave me on the street. I watch out of the corner of my eye, relieved, as Damon returns to his motorcycle. They're finally finished... So why is he  _ coming back?  _ I don't even have the strength to lift my head, but I feel him tying a rope around my ankle. 

"Why..." I struggle to sit up. What I see makes my blood run dead cold: the other end of the rope is tied to the back of his motorcycle. I don't waste my breath begging him not to. It didn't work before. I save it for a scream as the motorcycle accelerates, dragging me behind it on the unforgiving pavement. Cruel laughter echoes back.  

 

###

 

_ How am I still alive?  _ I thought I was hurting before, but now, every inch of my skin is on fire, doing its damndest to burn my soul out. Damon didn't cut me loose - mercy is not the domain of demons. The rope snapped, but not soon enough to call it divine intervention. Where am I? Or does that even matter? I roll onto my back, trembling all over. Bright red patches of scraped skin make it look like someone made a messy attempt at flaying me alive. I lay a hand over my heart.  _ WHY am I still alive?  _ Hunter speaks to me as I stare up at the starless sky, 

_ "'Everything that exists is born for no reason, carries on living through weakness, and dies by accident' - Sartre." _

"What comes after that?" I ask him quietly.

_ "We will either find out shortly, or we never will."  _

My eyelids flag shut, too burdened by the struggle of staying awake. 

"Hey!" They flick open again, then widen. This must be the angel here to take me to the next life because he fits no other description. His face is the color of porcelain and he has a glowing white halo of hair around his head, curling delicately inwards at the tips to brush his face. Bright, so bright that his glow fights back the darkness in the night sky. Why are his blue eyes so full of worry? "Help is on the way! Stay with me!" He takes my face in both hands. I want to... I want to do anything for him... 

"How?" I murmur insensately. 

"Touch me." He takes my hand and puts it on the side of his face. The wonder of touching his smooth, warm skin is ruined when I realize what a mess I'm leaving on it, staining his face with blood. 

"I'm here," he says desperately, "So stay here with me." A tear rolls off the tip of his nose to land on my cheek. I can't believe an angel like him is shedding a tear for a creature like me. "You have to stay with me..." His voice breaks as he repeats himself. "Okay?" 

I grip his face more firmly, holding on for dear life. 

"Okay." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi reader, hope you had fun, and if you did, DON'T FORGET TO LEAVE A LIKE AND SUBSCRIBE- oh wait, wrong website... Well, a comment and kudos would be much appreciated too (I accept anons)! Even if you didn't, hey, I'd love to hear what I could do better! I definitely do reply. 
> 
> Click [here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KassiopeiaX/profile?utm_source=ao3&utm_campaign=authors_notes) to find my upcoming update schedule on my profile!
> 
>  **Disclaimer** This is a prequel spinoff: Flaere Hunter is a supporting character from [The Human Rayce](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14040666/chapters/32340450), but 'What Happens on Harm's Way' can be read independently of any of my other work.
> 
> \- KassiopeiaX


	2. This Must Be the Other Side

I open my eyes to grainy, yellow light. The dirty spotlight shining down on me is the only illumination in the big top. I'm in my mindscape again, and that means... Hunter can't be far away. I stand up warily, scanning the darkness. Beyond the circle of light, the striped fabric of the tent billows silently, scorched in places. Charred wooden bleachers stand empty and trapeze bars sway overhead as if haunted. Circus tents are erected to house wonders, but the wonder escaped this place a long time ago.

"Flaere, it's so good to see you." The voice behind me makes me whip around, fists raised. Hunter steps into the perimeter of the spotlight. He looks just like me because he  _ is _ me, but there's something not quite right in his graphite-grey eyes and the lopsided tilt of his smile. He wears his orange hair down instead of up in a ponytail like me. He doesn't move the carrot-colored spirals which fall in his face. 

"What do you want?" I demand. He knows there's only space in here for one of us in the light. 

"Relax." His shoulders shake slightly with mirth. "I'm not going to steal your precious  _ spotlight. _ " That's a lie.  _ I  _ know he wants it more than anything. "I only wanted to check up on you." He feigns concern, reaching out to touch my face. I pull away before he can. 

"I'm fine," I say, curt.  

"I don't understand!" Hunter's voice sharpens. "Why do you protect them?! They don't care about you, about  _ us _ , only  _ I  _ do!" He booms at me. I tremble but stand my ground. 

"You don't care about us, you just want to kill..."

"Yes...  _ Yes _ ..." Hunter seizes both of my hands, looking into my eyes with his fanatical ones. "We should end them. Send them into the void where they belong... Where we  _ all _ belong. And when we've had our fun..." A knife appears in his hand. He runs it lightly across the inside of my wrist, tracing along my inner arm over the artery pulsing with life underneath. My eyes widen in horror. 

"I said  _ no! _ " I shove him back, out of the circle of light. He stands eerily still in the darkness, hanging his head. His hair obscures his face.  

"Let me out," he murmurs. My heart starts to beat wildly. "Let me out, let me out, let me out, letmeoutletmeout _ LETMEOUT! _ " He snaps, coming at me like a hurricane with the knife brandished. I scream. 

 

###

 

I wake with a jolt, gasping as I sit upright. Placing a hand on my thumping heart, I will it to settle down.  _ Where am I?  _ It feels so soft... I run my hands incredulously over the fluffy white duvet on top of me, then bring it up to rub my cheek against it. I find myself in a white bed wearing a pale cotton shirt and breezy shorts. The headboard is shaped like a pair of wings embellished with tufted leather, taking center stage in a pure white bedroom. I narrow my eyes in confusion at the oval mirror on the ceiling.

"Rrrrawk! He's awake! He's awake!" The screeching voice nearly gives me a heart attack. I trace it to a white cockatoo with a yellow crest perched atop a golden cage in the corner. The door to the bedroom opens as if on cue.

"Oh thank goodness!" The angel! The angel from last night rushes into the room. So he wasn't just a drug-induced dream... He places a silver tray covered by a cloche on the bedside table and takes my face in his hands. I take the moment to stare into his eyes, disbelieving. "How do you feel? The doctor said to get plenty of rest."  _ Doctor -  _ the events of last night come rushing back like an out of control joyride down Harm's Way. I throw my sheets off in a panic to look down at myself... But the gaping red wounds are gone, replaced with beige skin again, tender pink in the places where it was worst. 

"I'm sorry, he said those would fade with time..." The angel runs a hand over one of the pink patches. He must be joking. In Clear, medical care is what you can pay for and this must have cost a  _ fortune _ .

"I-I'm the one who should be sorry," I stammer, "I cost you so much time and money." I cover myself with the blanket again, ashamed to be whole again, then I remember it's his blanket and toss that off too. 

"Don't be ridiculous," he coos, stroking my hair gently. "You're safe here. Oh! Where are my manners?" He sits up straight, clearing his throat. "My name is Esperance Plumeaux and this is Chateau Seraph... You can call me Esper." 

"Esper..." I let the name roll on my tongue.

"Do you want to tell me what happened?" Esper's warm presence numbs the pain of last night. I open my mouth to speak when the cockatoo shrieks,

"RAPE! RAPE! RAWWWRK!" I blush deeply.

"Stella!" Esper scolds the bird. "That was very rude." 

"Well she's right," I say quietly, rubbing my arm. 

"I'm so sorry." Esper meets my eyes, overflowing with sympathy The touch of Esper's delicate hand on mine makes my heart flutter. "I'm just glad... I wasn't too late." I stare at a point on the white sheets until my vision starts to dissociate.  _ Why are you being so nice to me? _

"Anyway!" Esper chirps as if to lift the mood. "Are you hungry?" He lifts the cloche from the tray to reveal thin, rolled pancakes heaped with cream and berries gleaming like jewels under a fruity glaze. Crowning the platter is the elegant touch of a strawberry cut to resemble a rose. My mouth waters. 

"Wh-What is that?" 

"Crepes, silly." He giggles. I dig in, shoving sweet pancakes and heavenly cream into my mouth as fast as I humanly can without choking. 

"Thank you, thank you, thank you..." I thank him over and over again through a full mouth. Before I can stop it, a hot tear runs down my face. 

"It was my pleasure, mignon." Esper brushes it away with a thumb. He's smiling but there's a touch of sadness mixed into his sky blue eyes. Cleared quickly as he resets to his balanced, pleasant expression. 

"What is your name?" 

"Flaere," I say,  "Flaere Hunter." 

"Flaere... Come, I want you to meet the others." He leads me through the door when I'm finished and wiping cream on my shirt. Stella swoops in from her perch, landing on Esper's shoulder as we go.

The door widens out to a much larger space than I was expecting. A long corridor of doors extends on either side. Before us, a set of twin staircases spiral to a lower floor and a chandelier is suspended in the space between. Paintings and lush carpets accentuate the sumptuous setting; I feel so out of place...

One of the doors open and a raven-haired head pops out of it. He shakes an enema kit as he yells,

"Okay, who took my 2-quart bag? Buy your own damn equipment!" Then he notices us standing there, and far from being embarrassed, he sighs and says, "Can you believe these guys? How am I going to prep now?" 

"You can borrow mine, Matteo," Esper says, sunny. 

"Thanks, Essie..." He turns his gaze to me. Matteo has blue eyes too, but they're deeper and darker than Esper's. "And who are you?" he asks, "A client? We're not open yet." Prep? Clients? The mirror in the bedroom... I'm starting to put two and two together and I think the immaculate halls of the manor are hiding a dirty secret. 

"Actually, that's what I wanted to talk to everyone about." Esper picks up a golden bell resting on a table and rings it. The clear, cheerful sound echoes down the hall. "Seraphs, meeting in the corridor!" It's so strange to find the most beautiful people in the world all in one place as seraphs filter into the hallway... I feel awkward and tiny in their presence; the weight of all their stares is compacting me in my place.

"Everyone, thank you for coming." Esper clasps his hands together in front of his chest. "I'd like to introduce you all to Flaere Hunter." He gestures at me - or at least, at the spot in which I once stood because I am hiding now in his shadow. "Don't be shy, mignon." I allow him to gently nudge me back into view, lulled by the way he says it:  _ 'mignon'. _ "I'm planning to give him the Gemini Room." At his words, the gathering erupts into protest. I don't understand what's going on, but I understand anger when it's directed at me. 

"You can't just replace Nova like that!" Matteo bursts out. "What if they find him? What if he comes home and finds out you replaced him with some random  _ slut? _ " I flinch at the word. 

"Matteo, control yourself." Esper doesn't raise his voice by even an octave, but there's a flash in his eyes that makes the others quiet down. "You know that I love and miss Nova as much as any of us. But he's been missing for months. We may have to reckon with the possibility that he may no longer..." Esper has to pause here for a deep breath, shutting his eyes briefly. "Be with us." He gestures at me. "But Flaere is here, right now. I found him last night on our doorstep, after he had been raped and dragged behind vehicles almost to death." They look shocked. Matteo closes his mouth and looks away, brow furrowed deeply. " _ This _ is what happens to sex workers outside our walls. If we can offer comfort and shelter to even one of them, isn't that what Nova would have wanted?" No one argues with him this time. 

"Then it's settled," he says, finally turning to me. "Flaere, if you will have it, I would like to offer you a position at Chateau Seraph."

_ "This is just another cage,"  _ Hunter spoils my elation. But how could that be right? This place is paradise, and it's run by  _ Esper _ ...  _ "A gilded cage."  _

"It's safer than working the streets and we can house and feed you..." Esper goes on when I don't answer right away. He shouldn't feel like he has to prove anything to me.

"I'll take it," I gasp out loud before I dare change my mind. Esper's face splits into a warm smile. 

"Then welcome to the family, seraph."  _ Family.  _ My face is warm too when he spreads his arms wide. I take the hug eagerly, enjoying his touch and his scent: french vanilla. 

Esper spins around gracefully on the tips of his toes and claps twice. 

"Seraphs, you are dismissed. Back to work, everyone!" They go, but they don't seem delighted by what just transpired. I try not to look them in the eye. I know it as well as they do. I'm just some street slut who got lucky. 

_ "You are ever so pathetic, Flaere."  _

"Thanks, Hunter, that really makes me feel better..." I mutter. 

 

###

 

"Okay, so the first thing you need to know if you want to be a seraph is how to pole dance," Matteo explains as he climbs on stage in the common performance room. I follow him, shy. There are two poles on stage and Matteo takes one. I guess that means this other one is for me...

"Matteo works the Scorpio Room. He's my best dancer," Esper says from the plush red spectator seat. 

"Aww thanks, Essie," Matteo winks at the monsieur as he adjusts his outfit: a tight black crop top and tiny black shorts that he hikes up even further to reveal a sculpted ass. He wears black knuckle gloves and heels that look hard to balance on. He's so beautiful and talented, how am I supposed to match up to him? He warms up, gripping the pole in one hand as he takes a short walk around it, stretching his legs in places. "Let's start with some basic moves." I watch intently while he bends backward alongside the pole, popping a leg flirtatiously. Then he hooks his leg around it and swings in a perfect circle. He makes it look so easy. "Try not to lose your balance," he instructs.  

I hold the pole and my eyebrows hop. It isn't nearly as cold as it looked. The smooth, brushed metal is almost skin temperature. It practically invites me aboard. The pole feels natural between my thighs as I climb it, testing my balance. This isn't so bad... I find new ways to coil and bend around it, getting higher each time.  _ I want to go higher! _ A small giggle escapes me - this is actually...  _ Fun. _ The pole is a conduit grounding me so I can let my body venture into daring poses and dramatic movements. I'm so high up now! Matteo is wrapping up his demonstration on the other pole, dismounting as he dusts his palms together. 

"And don't feel too bad if you don't get it right away, pole dancing is a difficult-" He cuts off when he sees me, slack-jawed. Esper is staring too, eyes wide. I find myself suspended upside-down on the pole, one leg twisted around it and the other extended - pointed - off to a side. I freeze.

"I-I'm sorry, I didn't do the move right..." Scrambling off the pole as if I'm being chased, I dismount.

"You're a natural..." Esper marvels aloud. 

"Y-You think so?" 

"Rawwwk! Pretty boy!" Stella croons from Esper's shoulder. 

Matteo folds his arms and glances away, irritable. "He needs polishing." 

"And I'm sure you'll be able to help him with that." Esper smiles. 

 

###

 

"You don't have to do this if you aren't ready," Esper reminds me.

"I-I want to." But I stiffen in the presence of the bigger seraph. Tall, tan and muscular, Ryker's gentle spikes of blonde hair streaked black are layered around his head almost like a lion's mane. Olive-green eyes twinkle in amusement as he gives me a once over. We stand in the Leo Room, Ryker's room. Mellow, sandy yellow lighten softens edges buffs everything to a golden glow. I feel  _ heat _ even though this room is not actually warmer than the rest of the chateau.

"He's terrified, Esper, give him a break." He chuckles. 

"He said he wanted to."

"If you say so." With a casual shrug, Ryker drops his pants to reveal his sizeable manhood. He's more excited than he lets on, fully erect. It throbs. Distracted by it, I actually scream on instinct when he places a hand on my shoulder. Esper winces.

"Wow," Ryker comments, "Lesson number one, reserve all screaming for when he starts pounding you." 

"Ryker, I told you not to bite," Esper says sternly. 

"I'm just messing with him..." Ryker chuckles, "Unwind a little, babe..." 

He takes a step back as the angel cuts in to mediate. I feel no panic when Esper takes my hand, at least until he places it on Ryker's exposed chest. My heart pounds in my chest as if trying to break out. My eyes squeeze shut on instinct.

"I want you to calm down, Flaere." Eper's voice comes to me like a lifeline. "I want you to realize that Ryker is not going to hurt you."  _ He isn't... Going to hurt me...  _ I realize that there is a heart beating under my hand, pulsing rhythmically. My brow relaxes slowly. I place my other hand on my own heart, using his as a metronome to calm my own until they beat in sync.  

Maybe this will be okay.

I let Ryker lay me out on the bed, climbing on top. The yellow light filters through his blonde hair and makes it glow. 

"Sex is a connection between two people." Esper's voice is like soft music in the background. "It can be passionate and intense, or soft and loving. Then there those who would misuse that connection to cause pain... Some manipulate it with spite in their hearts. While you're in this room, I want you to make a connection with Ryker. I can't tell you what kind it will be, but I promise you will be safe the whole time."

Sex as a connection? I stare up into Ryker's calm green eyes; brush the tips of his blonde hair with my fingertips. Usually, it's just something that happens to me, while I squeeze my eyes shut, grit my teeth and cower in a corner of my mind waiting -  _ begging  _ \- for it to be over. But I want to be here. I want to be present when Ryker draws a scorching line over my chest, devouring my features with his eyes.  _ I want to kiss him.  _ The thought refuses to go away, so I act on it, drawing his face toward mine in a kiss. Ryker melts into it, his body coming down to rest lazily on top of mine. 

His eyes drift shut as he tilts his head, using his tongue to playfully tussle with mine like lion cubs on the savannah. Then runs it along my cheek, desirous and flirty, unlike Mamba who did it to intimidate me. A remnant of that fear must have found its way onto my face because he smiles down at me sympathetically. 

"Hey, ease up, new guy." He lazily draws dusky finger through my orange ringlets. "You're really pretty, you know." 

My face goes hot. "You think so?" 

"Mmhm..." I almost don't realize that he sank inside me. Not because he's small, but because he did it so casually, and I was relaxed enough to let it happen. I feel my entrance dilate even more to accept him, but not the pain that usually comes with it... Just... Pleasure. An involuntary moan escapes between my parted lips. Ryker brightens, rewarded, and picks up the pace. Gasps and moans fill the room, getting progressively heavier. A naughty glint flits across his face and he grins. 

"Well since I'm doing all the work, you could at least tell me how I'm doing." Desperate to make a good impression, I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. 

"It feels good!" 

"Noted." He shrugs. "But I meant more like tell me about  _ me. _ " 

"You're really hot..."

"Mmm..." He closes his eyes, giving it to me harder as if to reward me, but the unexpected change of pace makes me flinch. "Tell me more."

"You're... Big." Stay focused.  _ Stay focused _ . But thoughts are beating down the doors of my head. Thoughts of Mamba, thoughts of...  _ Damon _ . And suddenly, I'm on edge, waiting for the pain. 

"Oh yeah?" Ryker doesn't seem to notice, plunging deeper this time. It feels like a violation. A tiny cry emits from my throat, barely audible. His handle on my hair tightens. I lock up in response, clawing the sheets into balls within my fists. My teeth clench. "And what else?" Ryker whispers. 

"You're... You're..." Tears brim at my eyelids. I squeeze them shut. " _You're_ _hurting me!_ "  

"RAPE!" Stella shrieks. 

Everything... Stops. I muster up the courage to look. I find Ryker perched at the other end of the bed on his knees with his hands over his crotch, looking guilty. He actually  _ stopped _ .

Esper is at the bedside, although I don't know when he got there. 

"You are dismissed, seraph," he says quietly, "Go take a cold shower." Ryker gets up with a sigh, pulling his pants back on. 

"I'm sorry, Flaere," he says before he goes.

My heart is pounding. It pumps guilt through my veins.

I turn to Esper. "It wasn't his falt- I-I was just-"

"No. It was mine." Esper strokes my cheek tenderly. I stare into his crystal blue eyes until they calm me down, "Ryker isn't our most...  _ generous _ lover. But I thought his casual appraoch to sex would agree with you... I should have known you weren't ready. Why don't you stick to dancing for now?" I nod wordlessly, but my heart is sinking. Even a classy prostitute has sex and if I can't do that, then I've failed him; and if I've failed him then I deserve to be kicked out of this gated section of heaven. 

"Oh, I have an idea." Esper feeds Stella a walnut from his pocket. "Stella my dear, show Flaere the money!" he says in a campy voice. She flutters to his pant pocket and fishes out a wallet. I watch, fascinated as she maneuvers her talons and grey beak to deftly pluck a wad of banknotes from inside. Folding and neatly returning the wallet, Stella flits to my shoulder. I take note of the gentle, sharp pressure of her talons in the meat of my shoulder, and then the weight of the notes she drops into my waiting palms. My eyes widen. They're all twenties. 

Esper holds an arm out to provide Stella a perch to return to. He smiles knowingly when I look at him in disbelief. 

"Take the rest of the day off and go get yourself something nice." 

 

###

 

The sun is just starting to set on Harm's Way, illuminating even this disgusting end of the world under a peach and vanilla sky. 

"Come on, babe, I can pay." But already, the rats are starting to emerge. A sleazy man talks up a much younger dancer: much too young to even  _ be  _ an exotic dancer. The boy keeps walking, brisk.

"I-I said no. I'm sorry, I have to get to practice," he stammers, uncomfortable. I keep my head down and head straight to the bodega. Workers are knocking down the fast food joint that once stood next to it. 

"Fuck!" curses one of the workers as he breaks through the wall with his sledgehammer, "What a shithole." I can't tell if he's referring to the restaurant or the entirety of Harm's Way. The bell on the bodega's door jingles cheerfully as I push through it. 

"Hey, Flaere, meet anyone cute today?" the shopkeeper, Andres, chuckles. His eyes widen as I slide the twenty across the counter. "Or rich?"  

"Something like that." I smile weakly. "I want the cards." 

"Sure," Andres says, reaching for the topless playing cards next to the cigarettes.

"Not those," I pipe up, pointing instead to the colorful foil packages.

"The Ultimate Fighter cards?" He raises an eyebrow at me. "You want  _ those? _ " I nod eagerly. "Well, if you say so... They're pretty old, though." 

"That's okay." That's why I want them... I marvel at the foil package in my hands, hardly able to believe that I own it. I've never had money that I could just  _ spend _ on things before... The sound of more debris coming down next door spoils the moment a little. "Hey, why are they knocking down Castellano's? They had the best falafel on the Way..." 

"Black mold, Flaere. Black mold," Andres says flatly.

"Oh..." I grimace. I try not to think about how many years of my life I lost over falafel.

"Yep, a total lost cause. The city has it slated for demolition." I'm not listening to him anymore as I peel back the foil wrapping. The ultimate fighter cards are everything I thought they'd be. A glossy picture on one side- and  _ stats _ on the other! "Look, it's the Punisher! And this one's Bullshark!" I excitedly place the cards on the counter to show Andres - they look so cool next to next like that... That's when it occurs to me that he probably doesn't even watch wrestling - I'm wasting his time and boring him half to death - but when I pause, I find Andres observing the cards, amused. 

"You're really into this stuff, aren't you?"

I gush, "They're only the best fighters in history," 

"You know they're all retired, right?" 

"I know..." They got out before the sport turned into a depraved freakshow. I turn over the last card in the pack and my eyes widen. "No way..." 

"Whatcha got there?" Andres asks. I turn the card towards him, trying not to scream with excitement. 

"Vesuvius! I got Vesuvius!" Then turn it back to myself because I can't get enough of it: Vesuvius is huge, with a shock of flame-red hair tapered down the sides of his head.  _ So tall...  _ I touch my own hair subconsciously.

"Vesuvius, huh? Wasn't he a big deal back then?" 

"The biggest ever! 'Watch out, I'm bringing the  _ Pompeeeeiiiin! _ '" I mimic his catchphrase and laughter spills out like a reflex. 

"You're a funny guy, Flaere." Well, 'funny' is one of the nicer things that could be said about me... I indulge myself further in a can of soda and a pack of gum before the bell cheerfully rings me out of the bodega. Darkness robs me of my mood. Nighttime on Harm's Way has never brought me anything good. I slip a hand in my pocket and let it rest over the cards for borrowed courage.  _ I'm going back to the Chateau. I don't have to stay here,  _ I remind myself as I start walking.

The workers are gone for the night, leaving the shell of the building with jagged teeth where they broke the wall. Then I hear it. Tiny, choked noises and the faint sound of flesh slapping against flesh somewhere in the dingy alley between the bodega and Castellano's. 

"H-Hello?" I tiptoe into it. My eyes adjust to the darkness and I freeze in my tracks.

The greasy man from earlier is on top of the young dancer. He has a hand clamped down over the teen's mouth so he won't scream, but tiny whimpers escape him anyway. Pushing him down into the overflowing garbage, the man grunts like a horrible pig as he thrusts. My head spins. Nausea. Terror. Then  _ anger _ . It spikes my brain like a frigid icicle. And I don't... I don't  _ stop it.  _ Before I know it, I'm wrapping my fingers around the sledgehammer left lying against the wall. 

"Filthy pig..." I say in a hoarse voice. The larger man looks up with furious eyes. Which turn horrified when he sees the sledgehammer rapidly approaching. I strike him with a golf swing, sending him flying off the teenager. He rolls a short distance over the dirty pavement and comes up coughing up blood and spitting out teeth. He's still conscious; he sees the murder in my eyes and tries to scramble to his feet. 

"Where do you think you're going?" A horrible crunch of bone as I bring him down again with a shattered kneecap. The pig squeals, impossibly loud.  

He drags himself back along the pavement, leaving a trail of blood. Just another. Just another stain on Harm's Way. His face finally looks as swollen, bruised and ugly as his heart. 

"N-No!  _ No! _ " he finally finds his voice, screaming for mercy 

"Isn't that what  _ he  _ said to you?" I jerk a thumb at the teenager in the refuse. "Did you listen to him?" 

"Please! I'm sorry!"

"DID YOU LISTEN TO HIM?!?" 

"I'm sorry, I'll never do it again, I swear to God!" Oh, they're sorry now... They're  _ aaaaaall _ sorry all of a sudden when they feel the hellfire licking at their soles... The pig's eyes widen as I raise the sledgehammer over my head with both hands. 

"God is dead," I hiss. It comes crashing down in a shriek of displaced air and human terror. 

I come down from my adrenaline high. I come all the way down. My vision is blurry as if my view is censored. Eventually, it focuses and I see the man's prone body on the floor. His left leg is drenched in blood. _Oh God..._ I slowly trace down from my grip, along the length of the sledgehammer... To the spray of shattered bone and blood and... squishy stuff? I drop the weapon, shocked. I'm covered in blood. A tidal wave of nausea hits me; I stumble to the other side of the alley where I empty the contents of my stomach, shivering against the wall as I gasp for air. There's a high pitched whine running in the back of my head. When I focus on it, it expands into the hysterical screaming of the teenager. I'm dry heaving again. _I don't want to be here anymore._

_ "You finally did it..."  _ Hunter's laughter fills my head, quiet at first and then it grows deafeningly loud.  _ "You finally did it, you son of a bitch!"  _ So loud, so loud; and then suddenly, his laughter is on the outside.  _ Hunter is on the outside.  _

My body is moving, but I'm not in control, watching, trapped behind my own eyes like a pane of glass. Hunter takes over, laughing uncontrollably as he digs deep into viscera. He marvels sadistically at the way the ruby rivers run between our fingers. Then he's rubbing it all over, staining our shirt and shorts. The white fabric blooms in scarlet. 

_ "Stop it!"  _ I quail from inside our head.  _ "You're- you're ruining our clothes!"  _ Our clothes, as if he cares about that right now.  _ "We can't go home looking like this!"  _ I start to sob.  _ "We're going to lose all the good things that have been happening to us!"  _

"What good things? Your precious new brothel monsieur? Who had you raped on your first day?" 

_ "That was an accident..."  _ I say hesitantly.

"Then he sends you off with money like a pedophile uncle pacifying his nephew with candy... He just wants to use us like all the others." 

_ "That's a LIE. Esper has been good to us!"  _ Hunter runs our hands over our face, as if trying to stain our soul with the sharp, metallic scent of blood. He drags them through our hair, tearing out my hair tie on the way. Every time- Every single time! Our orange hair cascades down around our shoulders, highlighted now in rusty red. 

"Even if it was. Do you really think you're good enough for him?" His words cut me like a knife, but we are bleeding another man's blood. My crying quietens. 

"Don't worry, sweet little Flaere... Our fun is just getting started." He turns, grinning, to the teenager frozen to the spot. The boy's soft magenta eyes widen; he clamps trembling hands over his mouth in abject terror. I feel every murderous intention running rampant in our head. 

_ "No, Hunter, please... NO!"  _

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh snap - in the most literal sense.


	3. Ophelia, She is Mad

"Now what's a pretty thing like you doing putting yourself in Harm's Way..." Hunter murmurs, stroking the boy's face, marring his soft features with smears of reddish brown. But he's still beautiful, we find out as we let our eyes roam his young body exposed between torn fabric. We find the red stains between his trembling legs. _Those_ , we didn't put there.

"I-I don't have a choice," the kid stammers, "I have t-to feed my brother... Please don't kill me..." He breaks down, his magenta, almond-shaped eyes spilling over with tears. His story, two lines long and long enough to break my heart into a million pieces. _Big deal,_ Hunter is irreverent, _We have a sob story too; did that ever stop anyone?_

"Ssssh, sssh, ssh." Hunter plugs a dam with just a finger pressed to the boy's lips slightly too hard. "If you scream, then someone will hear you. And if someone hears you, then I'll have to kill you. Does that make sense?" The teenager nods slowly, horrified but fighting to get his tears under control. "Good." Hunter removes the finger only to replace it with our lips. Our tongue sullies his mouth with the metallic taste of blood. His body stiffens under our touch. When we look into his terrified eyes, I only see myself, locked up and checked out on the cold mat of the boxing ring. Sometimes crying. Other times just staring up into the glare of the lights until my vision is filled with spots.

It makes me sick.

 _"Don't do this..."_ I plead with Hunter, _"Don't turn into the people who hurt us."_

 _Who hurt YOU_ , he hisses. But Hunter feels... Restless.

_"They hurt you too, Hunter."_

"I'm not some pathetic victim! I'm stronger than you! _I'll show you!_ " he roars out loud. We grab the first thing we see with both hands: which happens to be the boy's skinny throat. He claws desperately for air as we choke garbled noises out of him that somehow get fainter and more desperate at the same time. Legs kick helplessly underneath us.

 _"Hunter!"_ His anger reacts with my panic like chemicals. I summon up all my strength, every last bit of influence I have left in my consciousness to fight him. Our eyes widen.

"What... Is this..." Hunter says haltingly, watching but unable to stop our fingers slowly prying apart. I start to feel it too, our grip loosening - I still have control! And I wasn't too late. The boy's eyelids flutter. He coughs, wasting precious seconds while Hunter and I struggle for control.

"Go!" I wrestle enough of it back to shout at him.

"Shut up! _Shut up!_ " Hunter forces me back down. It was enough. Shooting pain as the teenager knees us hard in the groin. Hunter recoils with a gasp, allowing the boy to shove us off and beat a hasty retreat toward the mouth of the alley. He was sharper than Hunter thought, and that makes him _furious_ . Rage flashes hotly through Hunter's veins; he gets up as if to give chase, until he notices the shapes moving at the mouth of the alley. People. Too many people, but just enough for the teen to lose himself in the crowd. Only then does Hunter look down at our bloodstained self and over our shoulder at the body spread-eagled on the pavement. The whole crime scene looks so obvious that we may as well install a neon sign! Hunter doesn't care about the repercussions of our actions. The threat of _death_ doesn't scare him. Prison? What a joke. No, he just doesn't want to be caught before he's finished having his fun...

But that might not be possible. Night is when Harm's Way wakes up, and there's no way to hide this body from its probing gaze.

"Castellano's..." Hunter mutters.

_"This is no time to be thinking about falafel!"_

"They're demolishing it, genius." I slowly piece together where he's going with this. He grabs one of our victim's legs in each arm and starts dragging him backwards over the filthy ground. The body paints a swathe of red mixed with bits of brain matter in its wake. The _smell_... Another ragged sob escapes me.

 _"He's dead,"_ I moan as if saying it will make it more official, _"We really killed him..."_ Hunter bursts out laughing.

"We? Oh no, this was your doing." My blood runs cold.

 _"Y-You made me do it!"_ I'm desperate to shift the enormous weight of the blame, because I can't possibly carry it alone.

"As much as I would love to take credit," Hunter grins down at the bloody results. "You killed this man, Flaere. His blood is on your hands." Horrified, I stare down at our victim - _my_ victim. His purple-black, mangled face is terrifying in the low light. Any moment I expect him to sit up and point at me, howling, ' _You!_ You did this to me!' But there's only silence, except for my quiet sobbing in the emptiness of our mindscape. "'Demons run when a good man goes to war.' Steven Moffat," Hunter muses.

 _"Then we should start running..."_  

We find the entrance to hell soon enough: a pitch black hole carved into a dirty wall. The door hangs off its hinges, creaking ominously on a nonexistent breeze. We drag the body in through the back entrance to Castellano's kitchen. The festering black mould colonizing the walls makes my skin crawl. Paint peels as if the room came alive and tore its own skin off in a desperate attempt to rid itself of the disease, only to find it runs even deeper than the surface. The dirty green counters and stove tops are mostly bare except for a scattering of kitchen utensils. Hunter's eyes alight on the fridge.

"Perfect..." he mutters. He gets to work on the body, casually wrapping it up in kitchen towels like a butcher packaging a morbid cut of meat. The smell washes over us in waves, not that he minds. "I don't see why I have to clean up your mess for you, Flaere," he says nonchalantly. "Why don't you pull your weight?" I feel the pull of reality - literally.

_"No, no, no, no-"_

"NO!" I gasp, on the outside again, but I'm not ready. He's doing this to torment me. Forced to confront it, my hands hover over a half-wrapped body. A part of my mind says _run_ but a larger part reminds me I can't just leave him lying here... So I gingerly pinch the end of one of the towels between my fingers and cover up a section of grimy beige with dirty white, as if that's somehow an improvement. The back of my hand brushes skin on accident, sending a shudder through my entire body. I've never felt anything so _cold_ in my life _._ Not Coach Ruger's death glare, not a brutal winter night on Harm's Way. Not even strawberry popsicles behind the circus tent in mid-July...

That place. Let's go back to that place. I let myself travel through time, back to when the long grass and weeds tickled my bare feet as I swung them off the edge of the wooden crate. My fingers were laced between the small, pale fingers of another, but my focus was on the other hand as I sucked on a strawberry treat. It stained my lips red as a cold trickle of melt spilled over my knuckles. Dripped onto the white of my white and gold leotard. The ringmaster would be mad later, but right now is for counting dragonflies.

"Look!" the voice beside me cries out, excited. I follow his pointing finger over the grassy field. "A green one!" he says. The dragonfly shimmers like an emerald as it darts back and forth in the summer sun.

 _Green._ The body's dead, green gaze wrenches me back to the present. He had green eyes. _Please stop looking at me_ . Trembling, I lay a hand over his eye - the one which hasn't been knocked from its socket - and gently close it. _I'm sorry._  

The head is the worst of it, so of course Hunter left it to me. Squeezing my eyes shut, I scrape what I can back into what's left of his cranium as efficiently as attempting to scoop the contents of an egg back into its broken shell with bare hands. I stuff the extra space with towels to keep everything in one place and rapidly wind more around the entire head, successfully completing the mummification. A twinge of pride in my chest rewards me for getting through it.

 _"I thought you were never going to finish."_ Which Hunter promptly dashes.

I tear shelves out of the refrigerator before dragging the body towards it. _I can do this._ Standing up the uncooperative body takes all my strength only to have it counterbalance the wrong way. That wrapped-up head comes at me like a vengeful spirit. Blood stains the towels with a macabre accusation. I scream,

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Pushing back desperately against the corpse.

 _"What is wrong with you?!"_ Hunter wrests control away from me to kick the body into the fridge.

 _"It doesn't fit. The body doesn't FIT!"_ I shriek.

"Maybe you should have thought of that before turning. Him. Into one!" He punctuates each word with a vicious kick with the heel of his boot, mangling the body further, contorting it, anything to force it into the place too small for it. "You think you can just smash someone's head open, blame it on me and play innocent?" He abruptly bursts out into crazed laughter. "Well you're a killer, Flaere! You're a killer like me!" _Push it down. Push it back down._ The fridge shudders as he slams the door, panting angrily, then shoves it over for good measure. It lands with a decisive clang like a funeral bell. Like the bang of a gavel passing judgement. The fridge-coffin lies eerily still in the middle of the disgusting kitchen.

Suddenly, we hear faint voices outside.

"Bring 'er down, boys!" someone calls out. Our eyes widen.

We burst through the back door moments before the wrecking ball follows us out in a sandstorm of plaster. A layer of dust settles on our back. Coughing, we get to our feet and dust ourself off. We glance back at the pile of rubble that hides my terrible secret. Not even a _mountain_ of rubble would be enough to convince me that it's gone for good.

Hunter sighs down at our ruined clothes, "I deserve better." Then he seems to remember the wad of notes in our back pocket and pulls it out, running a finger over the top. "Now... Why don't I show you how to spend a thousand dollars?" He grins.

 

###

 

The fancy department store looms over us like a castle of glass, guarded only by a barrier of superiority.  

 _"Hunter, what are you doing-!"_ He ignores me and breezes straight through the automatic doors, bloody clothes and all. We look horribly out of place in this stylish, pristine setting full of people who make more money in a day than we've ever made in our lives. A sales associate makes a beeline for us, but the wrinkle in his nose tells me he isn't interested in selling us anything. He stops on a dime before us with his legs together: a lanky, handsome creature with hair the color of red wine, neatly combed and parted. His dark brown eyes look us swiftly up and down.

"I'm sorry," he says in a posh voice. Why do people apologize when they're not sorry at all... "I'm going to have to ask you to leave." Hunter just slips him an annoyed look.

"Excuse me?"

"Your clothes..." the associate shakes his head disapprovingly. His perfectly shaped eyebrow arches suddenly. "Is that... Is that _blood?_ " His hand shoots for his phone.

"Have you never met a method actor before?" Hunter's bored tone dulls the reaction.

"Actor?" He pauses. With a melodramatic sigh, Hunter seizes the sales associate by the jaw, squeezing his thumb and forefinger to make him pout.

"Alas, poor Yorick!" Hunter declares "I knew him, Horatio, a man of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy." His tone is sultry and powerful, commanding attention. One smoldering look and he has the associate melting away in his grip.

"Oh, an actor!" the associate gushes. "We haven't had an actor in here in a while..."

"You've _never_ had an actor like me in here." Hunter growls, tilting the man's face slightly.

"Henri," the associate gasps out an introduction.

" _Henri_ ," Hunter makes it sound a thousand times better. "I'm Hunter." He releases him but Henri almost looks disappointed. Hunter tucks a twenty in the breast pocket of his form-fitting button down shirt. "Find me a blazer."

And incredibly, everyone else... Just goes along with it. They turn back to their shopping. I can't believe this. It's getting ridiculous. It's driving me insane; we murdered a man, can't anyone _see_ what we are?! I just want to scream it out loud. It's probably a good thing I'm not in control...

But I already know how we're getting away with this. With _murder._ I see it every time we pass a mirror, and even reflected back at us in Henri's admiring eyes: the way Hunter carries our strong body tall and proud. No matter where he is, his confident grey gaze would convince you he belonged there, and that maybe _you're_ the one who didn't. Every pose he strikes is cool and collected, with just enough drama mixed in. I'd be happy to shoulder off the burden of our life to him every now and then if it weren't for... Well, it's just too bad he's a psychopath, but maybe he wouldn't be as self-assured if he wasn't.   

Henri pulls a selection of clothes along behind him on a rolling rack. The hangers click together cheerfully. Hunter leans against the door to the changing room, languidly sizing up the sales associate in his fitted black shirt, tucked neatly into black pants. The attention does not go unnoticed by Henri who casts us a coy smile over his shoulder.

"Let's see..." He turns back to the rack and bends over slowly as if he's checking the tags, when he's really giving Hunter ample time to check out his tight ass. _Watch and learn, Flaere._

He isn't _that_ cute... But I can't help but stare.

Henri finally swivels around on a heel and walks this way, holding a blazer over his arm.

"Why don't we get started?" he says. There's a clever twinkle in his dark eyes.  

"You read my mind." Henri tosses himself into our arms and suddenly, he and Hunter are making out. I'm just stunned all through the kiss: from when our tongues wrestle passionately in the ring of our mouths to when Hunter squeezes Henri's ass, eliciting an ardent moan. Breaking off with a gasp, Henri lets his hands travel down over our chest, getting lower and lower until he's on his knees. He unzips our pants to stroke our erection, flashing us a heavy-lidded look. He's so beautiful... But Hunter is aloof, folding his arms behind his head against the door. He doesn't even have to say anything, just looks at Henri a certain way and he gets the message, taking us in his mouth.

I can't believe how lucky we are, staring at the gorgeous associate on his knees, looking back up at us with those eyes as he sucks us off. Hunter digs a hand in his cherry cola hair, making him go faster. Between us, I might get most of the sex, but Hunter knows how to _get laid._

He was always smooth... Then again, men like Henri seem to like it rough. So Hunter gives him what he wants, dragging him by the hair into the changing room and slamming the door shut behind us. He giggles, enjoying the sight of Hunter undressing him in front of the mirror. Meanwhile, I know it's taking every ounce of restraint not to tear his clothes off his body and snap his neck... Not exactly in that order. Hunter bends the associate over, holding him at the hips while Henri steadies himself with his hands on the mirror, breathing hard with anticipation. Hunter takes him in a single thrust, hilting deep inside his tight ass. He yelps, biting down on his lip.

Henri moans, then screams when Hunter pounds him from behind. He indulges himself in a three-angled view of the action in the mirrors. He just likes looking at himself. Especially when he's naked. Then Hunter is looking at me, smirking, in our reflection. _Jealous?_

 _"I'm not jealous of you,"_ I say defensively, _"This doesn't mean anything."_ I stare bitterly at our howling partner. _"HE doesn't mean anything."_ Hunter laughs abruptly

"See? You're starting to get it." He has a bad habit of talking to me out loud when other people are within earshot, which makes us look crazy. I don't think he cares. Henri looks slightly concerned in the mirror, but his climax comes and washes that worry away.

 

"This one is 94% Italian wool, very breathable," Henri is saying as Hunter tries on the blazer. Still in nude, the sales associate adjusts the lapels on our chest. I sink my gaze in the graceful dip of his collarbone. He smiles back flirtatiously.

"Not bad..." Hunter mumbles, examining himself in the mirror. The light tan blazer, matching pants and green turtleneck make us look like a completely different person, as if some fancy clothes can cloak what I've done. "What do you think, Henri, shades? No shades. Shades. No shades." Hunter flips a pair of sunglasses on and off and on and off again.

"Everything looks good on you, babe..." Henri purrs.

"You're right, I don't need them." Hunter tosses the shades aside and lets out a growl. He pulls Henri's svelte, naked body against our chest by the small of the back and kisses him lustfully before saying,

"I'll take the rest."

 

###

 

"So this is your precious Seraph Manor." Hunter sizes up the manor with a wry smile. If we didn't know any better we'd think a governor lived in that stately white mansion. Hunter doesn't look out of place with our new clothes and clean hair washed quickly in the department store bathroom. Every step fills me with dread as we make our way to the mansion. I start to beg.

 _"Let me handle this."_ Past the roundabout out front, and the angelic white fountain in the middle.

 _"Hunter, think about what you're doing!"_ He runs a hand lightly through the manicured topiary, then tears out a twig on the way through the decorative gates.

 _"If you hurt a single seraph in that house..."_ Hunter pauses on the doorstep, staring at the gilded knocker.

_"PLEASE spare Esper."_

Esper is the first thing we see. My heart sinks. He stands in the drawing room, cupping his chin in his hand as he studies two paintings in heavy wood frames. Stella preens herself on his shoulder. He lifts his head at the sound of the door closing behind us.

"You're back." He looks us up and down with surprised blue eyes. Stella whistles as if at us,

"Squawk! Pretty boy!" She flaps her wings.

"I like the new look," Esper agrees. My chest swells with pride.

"I thought you would." Hunter's voice reminds me that it's actually _his_ new look and I just deflates again. "What have you got here?" He joins Esper to look at the two paintings. Both vividly detailed scenes look lush and expensive - they match the rest of the chateau's decor.

"A new piece for the foyer," Esper sighs, "At least one of them will be if I can make a decision. What do you think? Ophelia? Or Aphrodite?"

I feel ya? Afro tidy?

Hunter laughs. "Oh? And what does a brothel monsieur know about Ophelia?" he questions.

I squeal in embarrassment, _"You can't talk to Esper like that!"_

"Flaere..." Esper is caught off guard by our insolence, but then I see him lower it slightly. An expression of amusement takes its place, mixed with a hint of intrigue. "To be or not to be? That is the question."

"That's basic," Hunter says mockingly. Unruffled, Esper raises his soft chin into the air and locks both hands behind his back, whisking by us.

"Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer, the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune - or to take arms against a sea of troubles." He might as well be speaking a foreign language to me, but whatever it is, it seems to be working on Hunter. He follows Esper with his gaze, suddenly focused like a predator. Hunter murmurs,

"To die. To sleep. To sleep, perchance to dream." But he makes us feel so awake, so alive. And yet, like we're dreaming at the same time. He begins to walk in sync, like a snake charmed by Esper's voice. Hunter reaches out to grab his wrist, unable to resist. The angel spins like a gust of summer air, bringing heat to our cheeks. Crescent locks of white hair settle around his face as he lays both of his pale hands in ours.

"For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come..."

"When we have shuffled off this mortal coil," Hunter completes the sentence. He leans in close to Esper's face, his eyes drifting shut. We hear soft giggling and the ticklish dance of his fingers over the insides of our wrists as he pulls away instead. Blinking in surprise, we see him dart to the porcelain vase in the foyer. He lifts an entire bouquet of stark white gladiolus out of it and bats his lashes at us coyly.

Esper changes the tempo, tossing flowers this way and that as he speaks faster,

"There's rosemary, for remembrance, and pansies for thoughts. There's fennel for you, and columbines." Hunter follows eagerly. He vaults over a couch to keep pace, right behind Esper when he pirouettes again to face us. With a smile, he offers us a stem of gladiolus. "There's rue for you, and here's some for me." Hunter takes the stem between his teeth, grinning wide around it. Esper giggles again as we sweep him off his feet. Stella squawks and flies to another perch.

Hunter carries Esper swiftly through the drawing room, past the stage as if trying to steal him from this place. He kicks open the glass backdoors to the gardens dramatically. Turning his head quickly to spit out the flower, he declares, impassioned,

"Alas then, she is drowned! Drowned! _Drowned!_ " The pool glows like an azure portal to the great beyond in the night air. Esper follows his thread. He holds his last flower over his chest with both hands and closes his eyes. He lets his head fall back, limp like a corpse.

"I loved Ophelia," Hunter's voice is raw and hoarse - _grieving_. He tosses Esper into the pool with a splash. Moon white hair blossoms as water closes over his peaceful face. For a bizarre, horrible moment, I think he's really dead.

Then Esper resurfaces, laughing with his hair slicked to his face. Hunter smiles down at him playfully, but I can hear his thoughts as he weighs two timelines: one where he leaps in after him and screws him against the wall of the pool, and another where he tangles his hands in Esper's wet hair and holds his head underwater until the bubbles cease...

 _"Hunter,"_ I gasp. I have no way of knowing which one he picked before he dives in. We wrap our arms around his slender body underwater and then Hunter pins him against the wall. Oh... This one. In my horror at the other option, I forgot this one is pretty terrible too.

 _"Esper isn't just a piece of meat..."_ I snarl. It should be me. It should be _me!_ Esper's breathing is low and ragged as he lock eyes with us. The pool lights cast a glow over our faces from below, but his azure gaze outshines them all.

"Flaere, you seem... Different," he says.

"Do you like different?" Hunter asks him.

"I-I do." The unflappable monsieur is finally flustered. "I really do." My heart sinks when I realize: different is Hunter. _Different_ is anything but me. I just want to shrink away into nonexistence as Hunter buries our face in his neck, laying fiery kisses on pastel skin.

"Oh Flaere..." It's my name he's calling, but Hunter that he wants, and I feel my alter ego's sick satisfaction at that fact. Esper's soft moaning drips in our ear like hot water. I feel his legs wrapping around our hips, squeezing us encouragingly. "Take me."

The rattle of the glass doors interrupts us. Hunter looks irritably over our shoulder to see Matteo coming this way.

"Essie, I thought I heard you come out here-" His eyes widen when he spots us in the pool. "Am I... Interrupting something?"

"No! No, not at all..." Esper seems to remember himself then, recalling that he's perfect and we're worthless as he stares at us in shock. _Ugh._ Hunter is annoyed enough to slip control back to me at the worst possible moment. I slowly register all the ways he's touching me: Esper's legs enveloping me and pinning our hips together. His arms wrapped around my neck. His eyes staring into my soul. My face goes unbearably hot.

"E-Esper-!" I squeak, but I abandon any attempt to speak in my panic. Untangling myself, I set off swimming aaaall the way to the other side. Only when I hit the opposite wall do I wrench myself out, dripping wet and panting from both the embarrassment and exertion. Matteo is extremely over this, shooting me an unamused look.

"O- _kay_ ." He turns to Esper who isn't faring much better, slightly flushed as he climbs out of the pool. "I cleaned Nova's room, like you asked," Matteo reports. "It's ready for... _Him_ now." He refers to me as if to a drunk vagabond they found on their doorstep. He isn't too off the mark.  

"That's perfect, thank you." Esper squeezes water from his hair. "Why don't you show Flaere to his room, then? I have a painting to hang up." He smiles a little at me. "I think I've made my decision..."

 _"My dear sweet Ophelia..."_ Hunter croons, like Esper is already his. And maybe... Maybe he is.

 

###

 

"Here's your room, so uh, make yourself comfortable I guess," Matteo says irreverently. The gorgeous seraph leans in the doorway with his arms crossed. I sense his deep blue eyes following me as I step tentatively into the room.

 _"The dead man's room,"_ Hunter muses. _We don't know that he's dead._ But the thought is wishful at best. That's actually one of the few things Hunter and I agree on. It looks like Esper allows his seraphs to make their rooms their own; this one doesn't match the rest of the manor at all. Most of Nova's furniture is still here: colorful, quirky pieces. There's a sketch book lying open on his desk to a beautiful sketch of the hydrangeas that grow in the garden. Further inside is a gaming system hooked up to a TV. I pick up one of the controllers, running my thumb over the smooth plastic. Then trade it for the framed photo on the end table.

The two men in it look happy. The one in front has ebony skin and fluffy, lime green hair. He flashes the victorious 'V' of his fingers at the camera and a smile as bright as the sun - no _brighter_ \- as bright as a supernova. I know straight away: _Nova_.

"You'll never replace him." A frigid hiss behind me. I turn to Matteo. He's an inch from tears.

"I know that..." He looks surprised. Did he really expect me to contest that? I look around Nova's room. It looks like it was once a happy place. All the saddest places are the ones that used to be happy. "He was so cool and talented and pretty." I stare down at the photo into his bright eyes. "And I'm just... A circus freak." A tear lands on the glass. I wipe my eyes irritably.

"Hey don't," Matteo sighs and looks away, "Don't cry... What does he even see in you?" His words cut me like a knife. An opening door interrupts us.

"What the hell?" Matteo is saying. I turn slowly to see a huge, demonic shape blocking the doorway. And of course it is. A demon from another life. I lift my gaze to wolf-yellow eyes.

"Coach Ruger," I say quietly.

"Whaddaya think you're doin' here, kid?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments and kudos are appreciated! (I do accept anons)  
> Check out my bio for my update schedule and upcoming updates for any of my stories!


	4. David, Meet Goliath

I hit the net and bounced. It wasn't supposed to hurt but it always did; the crisscross ropes burning into my back while the bright stripes of the big top whited out strips of my vision. A bright curve interrupted the pattern: it was a boy swinging on the gold trapeze bar high above me. His hair was the same shade of orange as my own. His white leotard was the same color as my own. The empty trapeze bar he switched to was once my own too - before I fell from it. The boy rode the bar to the opposite end of its arc and twisted off with a somersault, landing light on the tips of his toes. He stretched into a victorious 'Y' shape. He made it all look so simple.

He met me at the edge of the safety net and helped me down.

"Are you okay?" 

I looked up at him then right back at my feet. "I'm fine, Hunter." 

Then I heard a voice swearing, "Not again..." My heart was sinking faster than I'd fallen. The  _ ringmaster _ . The tails of his coat snatched at the air. "How many times, Flaere? How  _ many times  _ do you have to fall off that bar before it knocks some sense into you?!" The bullwhip struck the floor near my bare feet and made me flinch. 

"I'm sorry." 

"If Hunter can do it, why can't  _ you? _ "

I squeezed my eyes shut. "I'm  _ sorry _ ." 

The ringmaster grabbed my arm and shook it. "Look at me, boy! If you don't get this set down by today, I'm selling you to the freakshow, hear me?"

_ The Freakshow. _ It was enough to make me tremble, make my eyes widen and tear up. 

"No, please don't do that! I-I'll try harder - I'll get it right! Please don't-" My throat closed over the rest of the words. 

"You'd better," he growled. The ringmaster tossed up an arm as he returned to his seat "Drill it again!" 

Hunter waited until the ringmaster was out of earshot. He whispered, "Don't worry Flaere, there's no such thing as the freakshow. He's just trying to scare you." And Hunter was just trying to comfort me. I wanted to let him, but it was hard to look him in the eyes because they looked exactly like mine. He  _ was  _ me. 

But better. 

 

###

 

"Twenty," Ruger growls a number.

"Wh-What?" Matteo sputters incomprehensibly. Coach turns an annoyed gaze to the black-haired stripper. 

"I'm buying. Twenty minutes."

"Oh." Matteo seems to have just remembered what it is they sell here. "Well don't sell yourself short, I'm sure you could go the full hour." A quick up and down sweep. Matteo swallows slightly. "I'll just... Put that on your card." But he doesn't take Ruger's card, flitting from the room as quickly as he can. The door closes with a soft click, which leaves Ruger and me alone. I flinch from the hand he puts on my cheek. It isn't tender and it isn't lustful either. 

He holds my jaw, tilting it this way and that as he frowns at my face, muttering, "Where on earth have you been... Strip down." Ruger's command sounds different from Esper's says it. His gaze feels different - colder on my bare skin as the nice new blazer comes off and then so does the shirt underneath it. He looks at my naked body not to appreciate it, just to evaluate. "Flex." I do. He slaps the back of his hand over taut abdominals. No jiggle. The slight nod of his head is a relief.  

I always panic - just a little bit - when Ruger disappears around the corner of my vision. Hands on my back move downward. "What happened?" He must have just found the pale remains of the scars on my back.

"I was attacked." 

"Well. You look fine now," he mentions. "On someone else's dime, thank god..." A cold hand travels down the back of my pants. I stiffen my lip. 

_ "This is humiliating," _ Hunter tells me something I already know.  _ "How can you call yourself a man?"  _ I squeeze my eyes shut, horribly aware of the way Ruger is fingering me. And the disapproving noise he makes.  

"It'll do," he decides, "You have a match - we can't be late." Ruger casts a wary glance at the door as if someone is on the other side listening in. "I know Esperance," he says, "Once he gets one of these _projects_ stuck in his head, it's impossible to change his mind. Here's what we're going to do: you are not going to make a sound - you aren't even going to breathe - and you are going to stick very close to me. If we don't draw attention to ourselves, then we might just make it out of here without any trouble. Got all that?" 

I nod slowly, but my heart is pounding a mile a minute.  _ I don't want to go with you. _

_ "What can you do about it?"  _ Hunter challenges as Ruger's hand closes around my wrist. 

"Let's go," says Ruger. I don't speak, but I don't move either. "What is it?" Ruger shoots me a look. 

_ "You aren't a man after all, are you?"  _

He orders louder, "Out with it!"

_ "Just a shrinking, cowering, scurrying MOUSE."  _ My face is hot _. _

"I won't go with you!" I burst out. The realization of what I said is reflected in his eyes - I  immediately clap a hand over my mouth -  _ why did I say that why did I say that...  _ He stares at me for a long time. 

Then he chuckles. "Oh Flaere... You poor thing." 

"I live here now," I insist quietly. 

Ruger runs a finger over the top of Nova's picture. "New haircut?" I wince. "I blame Esperance." He smiles at the embarrassing way I perk up at the mention of the name. "He's nice, eh? Even nicer in bed." I look at Ruger in horror.  _ No _ , he can't have - I don't want him to have- "He's very good at what he does. He makes you feel like someone you're not. Someone wanted. Someone special, someone important... Maybe even a  _ seraph. _ " On that note, he sharply turns Nova's picture facedown on the table. "But you know better, Flaere. You're not a seraph. Are you?" Ruger's hand moves to my shoulder. He uses less force this time, but I find myself folding easily into his coil. "It's in your name. Circus freak." My head drops.

I let Ruger lead me through the bedroom door to the hallway.  _ Something has changed. _ I look around, nervous. The chateau is suddenly full of people and the air is saturated with the stench of alcohol. The stench of Harm's Way. It  _ hunted me down _ and now the darkness closes in at the edges of my vision. Any moment now, I think it's going to engulf me entirely - banish me back to the hideous underworld where I belong. 

A tangle of limbs is glued to the opposite wall. I freeze. A demon in a sports coat has a seraph pinned to the wall by the lips. I almost react but then the seraph's pale fingers appear between the peaks of his client's hair like white flags unfurling around his head. My fist loosens as the demon transforms back into a man. Just a man. The hallway lightens. 

The seraph has waves of steel blue hair. He moans softly, half straddling the client with a leg clothed in slim fit trousers.  _ They must be in love _ \- he almost convinces me. Onyx eyes meet mine over the client's shoulder and widen, but before either of us can speak, Ruger hurries me along. 

We slip between groups of clients lounging in the hallway, using the same corridors of space as a seraph bringing around drinks on a serving tray. A door swings open and shut; I catch a slice of the pole dance taking place inside saturated with purple mood lighting. 

The staircase unfurls before us, twisting around a lush crystal chandelier. I try not to look like I'm being kidnapped, but when I look into the chandelier, it reflects my terrified expression a hundred times. Not the others though. I see the way the clients interact with the seraphs. I notice Matteo leaning against a stripper pole - not even using it - as he chats with a small group of men holding drinks. His lips never stop moving, not even to  _ breathe _ . He illustrates each line with an animated expression or gesture. I bet he always knows what to say.

A ceiling lamp illuminates a pool table where Ryker is bending to take a shot. The pool balls clack together and he throws his arms in the air. He makes it look easy. I chase the light until it scatters in a cloud of blue smoke. Between hazy veils, a seraph takes a drag on a hookah. He tilts his head back and releases another puff of smoke before passing it to his right. 

They treat the seraphs like  _ people _ . How could I ever think... That I belonged in a place like this? Before I know it, I'm shaking again. 

"Focus." Ruger grumbles. "We're almost there." He holds me tighter as if to hold my pieces together just long enough -  _ just long enough -  _ to make it to the front door steps away. 

That's when a white blur of motion swoops over our heads. Ruger ducks a moment late: it tousles his silver ponytail. 

"Stranger danger! Rrrrawk! Stranger danger!" Stella chants. I follow her path with wide eyes as the cockatoo come to a smooth landing on Esper's outstretched arm with a few flaps of her wings. 

"Fuck," Ruger curses under his breath because those grandiose doors have a gatekeeper - or maybe a guardian angel.

"Good catch, Adrian," Esper acknowledges briefly. "That's just what I'd expect from you." Over my shoulder, I see the blue-haired seraph from the hall standing behind us. He nods and slips his phone back into his pocket. Then Esper turns a glare on Coach Ruger.

"Vitali, I am not sure what you're trying to achieve here, but I'll have to ask you to stop harassing my seraph." he commands. There is no reason Ruger should listen to him: Coach is bigger, stronger and my reddening wrist reminds me of that. 

"A  _ seraph? _ " Ruger lets out a wolfish bark of laughter. "That's a laugh."

"We reserve the right to refuse service. Consider this an official refusal of service.  _ Let him go. _ " 

"He's one of mine, Esperance; get out of my way. I don't want trouble." Instead of replying, Esper dials on his phone. 

"Hello?" he says, bringing it up to the side of his face. "Yes, I'd like to report an attempted abduction in progress. Chateau Seraph, Harm's Way. Please hurry." He hangs up, looking at Ruger as if to say  _ 'Your move.'   _

Ruger takes his sweet time. He fetches his phone and makes a call of his own. 

"Damon! It's Vitali." The name makes me shiver. I turn my face to him in disbelief but Ruger isn't even looking at me, smiling into space as if the rest of us aren't even here. "I'm doing  alright, can't complain. Hey, congratulations, I heard you made 12 grand at the Forge last night. I don't know how you do it, Black, but you always bet on the winning horse." My skin is trying to crawl away from my body and  _ hide _ . Hide from the man on the phone as if he could find me with his voice.

Vitali changes track. "That reminds me, disregard that last call, would you? A tiny disagreement, you understand." Vitali's grin widens at a response we can't hear. "Great. Hell of a mensch." He hangs up. "Sorry Esper, I didn't want to have to do this the hard way." He strides toward him as if to mow him right over but then he just freezes. I see why when I look down at the white tazer Esper has pressed into Ruger's middle. 

The monsieur says calmly, "Neither do I. Now what do you say we take this conversation to a more private location and talk it out like adults?" Vitali's lip lifts in a snarl. 

 

I sit with my back to the door, staring up at the ceiling. I can hear their voices from inside the room. 

"I've already hired him to the chateau." Esper is arguing. "And that makes him a seraph."  

"He worked for me first."

"Vitali, be reasonable. He's just another piece of mat candy to you - as if you couldn't find a replacement overnight." 

"I don't have overnight because he has a match  _ tonight. _ "

"I'll pay you the loss." 

"Esperance, you don't understand..."

"Twice the loss." 

A heavy thud, like hands slamming down on the table. If I concentrate, I can feel the vibration in the door. "I'm doing you a favor!"

Esper's voice is unrattled. "If there is one thing Chateau Seraph does not need, it is  _ charity _ ." 

So Vitali tries louder, "You don't know anything about him!" 

"I know he's a seraph. There is no other factor to consider." 

_ He's a seraph.  _ The word makes my heart quicken.  _ How can I let him lie for me like that?  _ My heart is running circles in my chest because it has nowhere to go. It wants out.  _ Out _ . I rise on unsteady legs.

_ "Do it then."  _ Hunter sounds disgusted with me and he should be.  _ "It's all you're good for anyway."  _ I take one step. The next clumsy foot falls in front of the last, marring the fancy carpet pattern. They quicken their pace until I'm walking briskly. Through the double doors where the icy air catches at my face. Then I'm running. 

Breaths come, shallow and ragged around the edges. I plow through wandering gangs of sex workers and johns. Each time the crowd parts, I witness another horror: a man in filthy clothes heaving into the trash can. A dealer portioning blue powder into the pockets of young men with desperate eyes. A rail-thin prostitute crouched by the gutter. Head down, both arms wrapped around a shivering frame covered in sores.

And each time the crowd seals behind me, it clips another piece of my undeserved wings until I can't hold myself up anymore. I stumble into a restaurant - it's a better option than the other stores on Harm's Way - and collapse in an empty chair to bury my face in my hands.

Almost immediately, I hear a voice: "Can I take your order?" The middle-aged waiter glares down at me. He isn't asking me, he's challenging me because he knows my type too well: a broke, definitely high slut occupying more space than he's worth. A younger worker peers this way, curious, from where he's setting down dishes at another table. 

"I-I'm sorry," I stammer. "I'll go." But before I can fully lift myself from the seat, the younger worker hurries over. 

"Here's your order sir, sorry about the wait." I watch incredulously as he places a plate of meatballs down in front of me. 

"Branvin." The older man looks exasperated. 

"What?" Branvin grins at him. "What is it, Papa, why are you harassing the customers? Don't you have a kitchen to run? These orders don't fill themselves." He swats his father's shoulder playfully with the order pad.

"But-"

"Go, go, weren't you the one who said I should take on more responsibility? The floor is mine; I can handle it!" He's pushing his father in the direction of the kitchens, gives him a headstart and watches him walk grumbling the rest of the way. 

Branvin turns back to me with triumphant hands on his hips. His hair is a pale pink - the color of salmon - and layered like it too. 

"You..." I trail off. 

"Don't mention it." He tosses a shoulder in a half shrug then pulls himself into the seat opposite me. "Here," he lifts a slightly tarnished serving jug from the table and pours lumpy reddish sauce over the meatballs. "Try it with lingonberry sauce. It's my favorite." The slightly sweet, slightly spicy aroma makes my mouth water, but I don't dare touch the fork yet. 

I look up at him and ask, "Why?" 

He props his face up on the heel of his palm, squishing his round cheek up under a bright brown eye. "Everyone needs meatballs with lingonberry sauce sometimes." Warmth at my cheeks. 

"Besides, I've seen you on TV. Flaere, right?" 

"Yeah." I glance from side to side.

"Well, on internet videos, anyway," he confesses. Then his eyes widen at my expression. "But don't worry! I only masturbated a little bit." 

Abrupt laughter escapes my throat. I can't help myself, shaking my head. "At least someone enjoyed it..." 

"It's not just that," Branvin joins in with a chuckle. "You made me appreciate my job too. I told my dad the very same day: 'Papa, hand me that apron or so help me-'" He laughs even louder.  

"Thank you," I say. He looks at me with sympathy before patting me on the shoulder.

"You stay as long as you need." 

Branvin moves away to attend to the other tables but I'm still smiling uncontrollably as I dig into the food. 

 

###

 

I peel my face from the tabletop, blinking, disoriented.

_ "Rise and shine, sleeping beauty." _ Did I fall asleep? How embarrassing... It was the sound of yelling that woke me up. I trace it to a group of waiters crowded around the only other occupied table: the rest of the customers are gone. A broad back is bent over the table, too huge to belong to an ordinary man. Then he lifts his head and the breath catches in my throat. The customer has the head of a bull. The terrifying shape of curved horns pierces the air. A thick septum ring swings from a flared bovine nose. 

He has a stainless steel keg of beer tipped to his lips, sinewy throat undulating as he gulps down liquor. Wasted alcohol escapes the sides of his muzzle in streams, spattering on the tiles. Once he's shaken out every last, precious drop from the keg, he hurls it over his shoulder. It ricochets from the wall, taking down a chunk of drywall before finally hitting the floor with a loud, metallic clang. 

"Another!" he bellows. The waiters exchange nervous glances. How is he going to pay for it all? 

_ "He isn't,"  _ Hunter says bluntly. 

"I said  _ another!"  _ The beast slams a fist down on the table. Branvin's father moves to the front of the group.

"Look," he says it so quietly at first that the drunken monster doesn't actually hear him, tearing into a hock of ham. He steels himself, clearing his throat to try again. "Look, there's no more. We have nothing else to give you. I'm going to have to ask you to settle your bill and leave." 

"What did you just say to me?!" The beast sweeps an arm, knocking plates from the table. Broken dishes and wasted food hit the ground. A waiter screams.

Branvin's father is hiding behind a serving tray. "Forget the bill then! Just go!" 

"Do you have any idea who I am?!" Then the monster is on his feet. Bulging muscles push at the black fabric of his shirt and pants. "Del Toro! Know why they call me that?" 

"Wh-Why?" Branvin's father quavers. 

He grins sarcastically. "Because I direct  _ great  _ movies." That name.  _ I know him  _ \- h-he's a wrestler, like Mamba. But not like Mamba. He's in the big leagues; he fights at the  _ Forge _ . I try to inch around the perimeter of the restaurant to the door.

"Papa, go inside." That's when Branvin stands protectively in front of the others. I freeze with my back to the wall.

"Branvin," his father pleads. 

"Just go inside. I can handle this!" he insists. He glances over his shoulder. "The floor is mine." Reluctantly, his father and the rest of the waiters retreat deeper into the restaurant. Branvin faces the beast, fists clenched. "I don't care who you are; you can't keep coming in here like this. There's no more for you. Go back where you came from!" But the beast's mind isn't on drinks anymore. I know that look in his eyes and it makes my heart sink. 

"Maybe I will... After dessert." 

"Hey!" Branvin yelps as the beast lifts him into the air by the ankle, flailing desperately. Grinning, the beast pinches the loops of the apron tied behind his back and pulls agonizingly slow. A tan apron flutters to the floor, soaking through gradually in a puddle of liquor. Branvin is quiet now, staring horrified at the monster while it peruses his figure, pondering where to go next.  
He snickers as he drags Branvin's shirt from where it was tucked into his jeans. The checkered button-down shirt falls away, helped along by gravity until it bunches under his arms to reveal a soft almond belly. Branvin whimpers. 

"Wait," he begs. "Wait, not here, not in front of my father... Let's go outside. The alley..."

Then he lets out a small shriek as a plate shatters against the side of the beast's bullish head. Del Toro snorts angrily and turns in my direction. I lower my throwing arm, panting, already breathless.

"Del Toro, huh? Maybe they should call you El  _ Bull-y  _ instead _." _

Toro's thick lip lifts in a snarl over broad, flat teeth. He hurls a screaming Branvin at the floor where he rolls to a stop near one of the tables. His father rushes to collect him. 

Toro drops to all fours and paws at the ground, snorting sharply. He lowers his horns; my eyes widen when I realize his intentions. 

_ "You know what they say about bulls,"  _ Hunter muses.

I whisper under my breath, "Grab them by the horns?" 

Branvin peels his face from the tiles to shriek the answer: "RUN!"

 

I fly down Harm's Way, arms pumping, heart pounding while the wind blasts my face.

"Move! Out of the way! You should probably run too!" I scream, pushing through the crowd. All around me, heads are turning. Screams in my wake tell me that I'm still being chased by Toro.

He makes it doubly clear by yelling, "Corra!  _ Corra! _ " and laughing loudly. I angle around a bend but Toro is far less precise on the turns. He crashes into a streetside bodega, making the owner scramble for his life before tossing his horns and sending bootleg DVDs and old stereo parts sailing through the air. 

An old concrete structure comes into view: a dried- up fountain in the center of a square which has never run as far as I know - and the one time it was attempted, the sewage stench was so strong that the whole square was a lost cause for days. In the center of the fountain is a strange statue of a naked woman on a naked horse - well, the second part isn't strange... 

I dive behind the fountain just in time as Toro charges right into it. The statue crumbles; I see the woman's head sail a few feet to land on the stone pavement. 

_ "Lady Godiva shall ride again,"  _ Hunter laments. 

"Where are you hiding, pequeno?" Toro taunts. 

Peeking over the edge of the fountain, I see Toro shaking his horns free of rubble. I duck quickly before he can spot me. From the expressions of the crowd, I can tell where he is, slowly crawling around the ring of the fountain to keep him on the opposite side. "You know you're just delaying the inevitable..."

My heart beats loud in my chest as I lock eyes with the terrified patrons of Harm's Way clustered around the square. 

"Flaere!" Then my eyes widen because he found me. Esper pushes his way to the front of the crowd. Coach Ruger follows right after.

"You shouldn't be here, Esper," I say, already blinking back tears. "I'm not who you think I am." Esper follows me with quick paces as I edge around the fountain across from the murderous minotaur.

"Flaere, how can you say that?" he pleads, "You're  _ exactly  _ who I know you to be. You are my Flaere... My  _ seraph. _ And you are also a fighter." 

I close my eyes against the word as if I could hide from what I am.

"That's right, you're a  _ fighter! _ " Esper goes on, "When the ones who were supposed to protect you ended up hurting you, you fought! You fought to stay with me! You fought for your place at the chateau!" I blink slowly. "And you're still in this fight. You can't give up now. Not yet."

"Esper..." My voice thickens with emotion. 

Ruger watched this whole exchange, unimpressed. Finally, he lifts his gaze to meet mine. "Flaere, I know what these high-tier wrestlers are like. He has a coach and a job to get back to. Just go out there and apologize, take it in the ass if you have to and we all get out of this in one piece." 

I lower my eyes to the rubble on the ground. "Yes, Coach." 

"Excuse me?!" Esper looks furious. "So this is what you've been teaching him? Well, no wonder his spirit is broken; you're the one who broke it!"

"Fighting that monster isn't the answer!" Ruger argues.  

"And having  _ sex  _ with it is?!"

"How about you stay in your lane before you get someone killed?" Then Coach mutters more quietly, "Overdressed gigolo..." Their conversation is interrupted when Toro tackles the fountain head-on and brings down the entire structure. 

I drag myself, coughing, from under the rubble, but not all the way. My leg is trapped under a large chunk of concrete. I have nowhere to run as Del Toro lowers his horns again. When he claws at the ground, he digs up a handful of the street. I can do nothing but watch in horror as Toro tears through the square toward me.

"Stop!" Esper puts himself between me and the minotaur. Directly in harm's way. 

"Esper!"

_ "NO!"  _ My head ringing because I've never heard Hunter yell that loud. And then he's yelling out loud. With a roar, Hunter heaves the rubble out of the way, freeing us before shoving Esper aside. The slender brothel monsieur rolls over the sidewalk. Hunter has only a split second to steady our stance before those horns close the distance.

Fists clamp down on Toro's smooth, pale yellow horns. Our shoes slide over the ground a full foot but hold steady there. Sounds of surprise rise from the audience. I see the shock in Toro's darting eyes before Hunter twists, leveraging a powerful core to hurl the bull-man through a display window. A sharp, bright rain of glass comes down on his dark coat. While he recovers, Hunter orders, "Climb!" I realize he's ordering  _ me  _ as he slips control back in my hands. I put my hands to a lamppost, coiling around the smooth metal as I scale it, reaching the top just as Del Toro stumbles back into the square. 

"Where did you go?!  _ Coward! _ " he bellows. Head swiveling. Looking for me. My feet leave the pole; I leap. 

Hunter grabs Del Toro's oversized nose ring and swings on it like a trapeze ring. A roar of agony echoes through our ears as we use our own weight to tear it through his septum. Stick the landing - we peacock for the audience, arms aloft in a 'Y' shape.  _ What's that sound? _ It's  _ applause _ . Looking around incredulously, I find a smile working its way onto our face. They're really applauding... 

This isn't over yet. We turn around as Toro steadies himself, cupping a heavily bleeding nose. 

"You're going to pay for this," he growls a threat. Hunter smirks. 

Then he turns sideways, claps our hands together and shout, "Ole!" Our feet shimmy into a quick and dirty flamenco - wait, I know what a flamenco is all of a sudden. Our body flows naturally; it's as if the tap of all of Hunter's knowledge was abruptly twisted open, flooding my head with things that he knows. I never knew - I never knew there was so much... I... I didn't know how much I liked to dance.

Del Toro isn't a fan. He lumbers this way, rage twisting in the depths of his dark eyes. Hunter is ready for him. Gripping the nose ring so that the thick metal shields our knuckles, Hunter cuts in and uppercuts Del Toro in the jaw. His neck twists at a sharp diagonal and then Hunter sidesteps neatly to let him collapse on his front. 

_ "Hunter, it's done,"  _ I tell him. 

But we aren't cooperating anymore. I can't stop Hunter from lifting a chunk of the broken fountain from the street and standing over our fallen foe. Our shadow stretches over an ebony bull's head. He only pauses because he senses the judgment of an angel. Hunter looks up to see Esper standing on the sidewalk just a short distance away. He has his hands clasped before him, watching us. Hunter's grin widens just a little bit.

"Pollice verso," he purrs. "With a turned thumb you command me, Caesar of my heart... Does the beast live to fight another day?" 

Esper whispers, "Flaere, let him go." 

Hunter relents, stepping off of the wrestler's chest. 

"My Caesar has a heart of gold," he muses as he swaggers toward the smaller man. As our hand cups the side of his face, Esper takes in a ragged breath. 

"Stop it, you're scaring him," I plead with Hunter.

"You're lying to him."

"You'll hurt him!"  

"You're talking out loud." 

I inhale sharply, bottling up my words but it's too late. Esper stares at me with wide blue eyes.

"Do you see now, Esperance?" We turn to face Coach Ruger who wears a grim expression. "He isn't normal."

Esper speaks abruptly, "One-hundred percent."

"What?"

"I will pay you... One-hundred percent of Flaere's earnings while he works at Chateau Seraph. I'm sure you'll find these terms more than fair." 

Ruger finally looks flustered, shaking his head in disbelief. "You're stubborn, Esperance! Stubborn as hell!" 

"Then we have that in common." 

 

###

 

I wince as Esper dabs at a bloody scrape with antiseptic. I sit at the edge of my bed while he kneels before me. Pale red seeps into damp cotton fibers. "I will find a way to release you from your contract." Esper's voice is soothing in the peaceful darkness of my room.  _ My room. _

"You don't have to do that."

"I want to." He's firm when he says it. Esper tucks the rest of the supplies back in the first-aid kit.

I start to stammer, "I-I'm sorry. I should have told you right away. I didn't mean to  _ lie _ -" Tears bite at my eyes. 

"What is it like?" His question surprises me. He searches my gaze as if he's trying to peer through my eyes: to find Hunter behind them. "What does it feel like?" 

"He... He talks to me. He's always with me. And sometimes... He  _ is _ me."

"The voice in your head?" 

My mouth twists in confusion. "Hunter isn't a voice. He's a person."  

"I see." 

"I'm sorry..." 

Suddenly, soft hands close around my face. "What on earth are you sorry for? You saved my life. Flaere, you..." His blue eyes are bright. "You're exactly as the stars made you. Two sides like Gemini... Oh you're perfect _. Perfect... _ "  _ Perfect?  _ I'm stunned. I've never heard that word directed at _ me _ . And then I'm leaning back while Esper climbs into my lap. He sets his knees on either side of my thighs and takes my chin in a soft grip. I search his eyes in amazement. "Can I kiss you?" he asks. 

What?  _ What did he just ask me? _ I can't even respond so I just nod rapidly. Soft lips close over mine. I kiss back, trying not to seem too eager as I dig for the taste of him. I slip both hands in his white hair, tilting his head for a better angle. I want his tongue - but that's a lie too because I want  _ everything _ . The instant stiffness in my lap is so embarrassing. I break off, blushing deeply. Esper noticed, but he doesn't move away. 

His lips are close to my ear when he asks, "Do you want me to touch you there?" 

"Are you offering?" I glance at him quick, then away just as quickly.

"I am." 

I moan aloud as his hand slips into my pants to stroke me. He doesn't jerk on it, he caresses, tormenting me with small fingers. He unzips my pants to free up my manhood and returns stroking harder, using precum to lubricate his movements. The way he pushes his thumb up against the base of my head with every pump makes me cry out. He almost squeezes out an orgasm each time. He's good... He's so good. 

"I want you," I gasp out, "To go faster." He does. Esper holds my head to his chest as my cries get louder. 

"Does it feel good?" His hot breath tickles as it swirls through the shell of my ear.

"It feels so good, Esper..." I whimper. I can hear his heartbeat and I want to feel it too. Wrapping my arms around his torso, I hold him closer, tightening when he brings me to a climax. 

I pant helplessly into his chest. 

"Oh Flaere, you might just be my favorite project yet..." He pets my hair, soothing my nerves. "Get plenty of rest tonight. You earned it." 

Esper excuses himself, closing the door silently behind him. I lay back on my arm on the bed, grinning up at the ceiling. Warm, fuzzy feelings still buzz through my body.

"He gave me a handjob," I say.

_ "He gave US a handjob."  _

A small snicker. "Not really." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess you could say he's had enough of the _bullshit_.
> 
> Okay that was the last one, I promise.
> 
> What, don't you _bull_ -ieve me?
> 
> Oh man is it great to be working on this project again!  
> (Fixed some earlier content but it requires no re-reading)


	5. Karma Isn't Just a Stripper Name

_ "MUST you wear our hair like that?"  _

"I think it's cute." I flick a few curls free to frame my face before tying off the rest in a high ponytail. I smile at the bouncy result. 

_ "No one will take us seriously."  _

"They don't do that anyway." The green leotard goes on next - I hop on one foot as the other stretches the fabric, inserted wrong. It slips through with unintentional force. Stretchy, body-conforming fabric rolls out like a second skin over mine, then snaps over my shoulders in the form of vest straps. The leotard cuts a suggestive 'v' at my crotch, offering a generous amount of upper thigh. I clip on a leather garter belt next, and then more belted garters strapped around my thighs: one, two, three. Just the way Esper showed me.

_ "They aren't holding anything up."  _

"I like them." I make up for my earlier clumsiness by tossing my body into a playful pirouette, letting my eyes shut so I can just  _ experience  _ the air around me. I come to a stop on a pointed toe and twist my head, blushing at the way the leotard clings to my ass in the mirror. Making eye contact with myself, I ask Hunter, "How do I look?"

_ "Like you are about to gyrate your hips for spare change..."  _

"So, exactly what we need!" My smile widens to show pearl teeth.

_ "You're chipper,"  _ he concedes only after all his attempts to bring me down have failed.

"Don't you see, Hunter? Our life is  _ better  _ now." 

_ "You are about to dance like a circus monkey for a paycheck. What about our situation has changed?"  _

"It's a nice paycheck." But more than that... "And we have Esper." My heart fills to the seams; I reach out to touch the mirror, flattening my palm against its reflection in the glass. "He accepts us.  _ All _ of us."  _ Including YOU. _

_ "Including the murder?"  _

The question shocks me like a bucket of ice water over the head; my fingers shrivel against the glass.

"No one knows what we did," I breathe. 

_ "You. What you did."  _

My reflection rocks violently as I grab hold of the mirror by the edges. "You will not ruin this for me!" I shriek into my own wide, grey eyes, but I can feel every bit of his apathy toward me. I'll give him something to worry about... One of the only upsides to Hunter's constant presence in my head is knowing exactly what scares him. "You..." Dropping into a shuddering hiss, "You will  _ not...  _ Or I can promise you that I will get us committed into the most backward asylum in the city where you will be tube-fed baby food and sponge-bathed like an invalid for the rest of your  _ life -  _ which, by the way, which will be a really,  _ really  _ long time when you can't find a bullet to swallow in your straightjacket and padded room..."

Silence. 

"I..." My lip quivers. "I'm glad we talked." 

Briefly escaping the demon who lives in my brain, I push through the door of my room... And immediately find another one. A sinful body bent to the banister; his leg is angled, picturesque, at the knee. A hard plastic tail coils seductively through the air, ending in the betrayal of a sharp scorpion stinger.  _ Matteo _ . The breath catches in my throat. 

The chandelier cuts Matteo's body into a million pieces and offers them all eagerly to me: the bare backs of the raven-haired seraph's gorgeous legs. The glossy roundness of his pert peach squeezed into black vinyl shorts and a stretch of lightly burnished skin between his studded leather belt and crop top. The way his lips wrap around the cigarette caught between his fingers... I tip my head in sync as he releases smoke into the space above the foyer and find heat at my cheeks. 

_ "The man who falls in love with both light and darkness will forever find himself trapped in twilight."  _

Astonished, I reply,  _ I finished that book and you know it!  _

And yet my heart skips a beat as Matteo takes notice of me. He turns around languidly, an elastic back conforming to the railing as he balances both elbows on top. "Well if it isn't the hero of Harm's Way." he says abruptly.

"Hero?"

"What's your superpower? Oversleeping?"

"I-I'm sorry, I-"

"Oh please, don't apologize. You are  _ such _ a busy man, after all." I think I see him roll his eyes but smoke obfuscates the details. Pounding in my chest - in time with the clicks of Matteo's heels on the floor as he struts this way. Blue eyes look me up and down as he half-circles, then turns around and circles me in the opposite direction. Matteo coaxes smoke from deep within a burning core and clouds my headspace. "Esper thinks you're so great," he scoffs; I brace for the stinger. "You're not so special. You're just another no-name slut - oh wait, that's right," Matteo taps ash and simpers, "You can't even do that properly. Think you're too good to spread your legs, do you?"

Venom drips from his lips directly into my bloodstream. But I think I'm starting to develop a resistance. I draw myself up tall and fix him with a stern gaze. 

"Stop being mean." 

The seraph blinks. 

Then he laughs, his back rounding as he shakes his head. "Cut it out, Flaere, you and I both know the truth. You could never be a seraph."

"And how do you know that?"

"Who, me?" He bats innocent eyes. "I don't know anything... I just have an instinct about these things." Matteo is swinging smoky circles in the air with his cigarette as he retraces his steps to the staircase. 

Lips curls impishly over his shoulder. "Hey." He carelessly fluffs and tosses a handful of his beautiful black waves of hair, flustering me all over again. "See something you like?"  

I swallow hard - will away the warmth at my crotch - try to look anywhere but his face - none of it matters when the clinging fabric of my leotard gives me away... 

His smile sharpens into a mean smirk. "I had a feeling you did." Before he descends the stairs with exaggerated tosses of his hips, leaving only the faintest hit of tobacco to remind us he was ever here.  

Hunter seethes like sticky tar in the back of our skull.  _ "I'll tear him apart and throw him to the dogs." _

I say under my breath, "He would come back leading the bitches..." 

 

In the entertaining room, preparations for another night are already underway. Everyone looks busy: wiping down the stripper poles and restocking the bar. A vacuum is running. A familiar face looks up from where he was racking balls at the pool table.

"There he is! Rise and shine, Superman!" Ryker announces. The blonde pounces eagerly. Today, he wears khaki shorts and bold suspenders - tightly packed abs rock from side to side between the bright bands. I like the soft cap he wears on his head; it's got a smushed shape that comes together to a rounded point and a short visor screening his brow.

Ryker plants hands proudly on his hips. "The man who killed a  _ minotaur! _ "

"I mean," I falter, "He wasn't  _ really  _ a minotaur, just a very large, very strange man... And I didn't actually kill him, I just-"

He cuts me off with a kind of nonchalance that makes me think he doesn't even realize that he did, "You know, I wasn't sure about you at first, but you might just have what it takes to be a seraph after all!"

"And what is that, exactly?" I ask weakly.

Ryker claps me on the back so hard that I nearly fall forward, grinning wide. " _ Guts! _ Now come on, come on, I wanna introduce you to everyone!" We start in a lounge drenched in sweet smoke. As we get closer, the vapor cloud hits me almost like a physical force; my eyes are watering. Ryker steadies me again. "Easy there, that's not your typical kush," he snickers. Then he calls, "Patchouli! Hey Patchouli! I want you to meet someone!" 

"W-Wait-" We duck headfirst into it.

Lost in a palace of clouds, I wander until a glimmer catches my attention: a concentration of light in an otherwise loose and blurry haze. As I walk toward it, a seated figure appears: a small man splayed over the couch, head lolled back on the cushions, his arms and legs spaced. Not as spaced as his expression. A jewel glints on his forehead: the lighthouse that brought me here. 

When the seraph lifts his head, he drags behind him a glittering net of jewels strung through pale mauve hair in messy braids - one on each shoulder. The seraph blinks sleepy canary eyes.

His lips spread. "Have a seat." He casually pats the couch cushion beside him. As I take a seat, I notice the mouthpiece of a hookah resting in his grip; I follow the tube's twisting path to a voluptuous sculpture of glass in the middle of the coffee table. 

It distracted me long enough that it takes a moment to return my attention to the seraph and find that the ends of his satin kimono robe are set apart - he wears nothing underneath. My eyes are drawn immediately to his crotch which greets me with a proud lavender patch of hair growing free and wild. Embarrassed heat rages over my face while the seraph watches with amusement. 

"Y-You must be Patchouli," I stammer a deflection. 

"Patch, if you prefer."

"I can see you prefer it..." 

"It is so  _ wonderful _ to meet you, my dear. Flaere, was it? You seem tense." He offers me the pipe.

"No thanks." 

"You seem bored." He bobs it at me expectantly.

"I'm really fine..." 

"You seem...  _ Sober. _ " 

It seems like I am not going to get out of Patchouli's bonding ritual. I stare at the mouthpiece full of dread, my skin rankling at the memory of stark blue lines on a table. Reluctantly, I take a puff, sucking smoke through the stem, but my chest and throat close painfully against the intruder - they expel it in a series of short, hacking coughs accompanied by tears. 

"The sheesha, she demands strong lungs," Patchouli notes. 

"I'm"  _ -hack _ \- "Sorry-" 

"That's quite alright, dear." 

Ryker appears through a cloud of smoke. "Hey, hey, what's going on here? This one's a good egg, don't cook his brain, Pisces," says Ryker.

"What, no skillet and egg demonstration today?" Patchouli teases. 

Ryker aims a playful kick at the seraph's ankle. "And put those knees together, nobody wants to see that..." 

"That's not what you were saying last night." 

"You put something in my drink last night,  _ 'my dear'. _ " The seraphs share a laugh and Patchouli tosses one leg over the other, temporarily tucking away his fuzzy crotch.

"That was quite reckless of you," Patchouli returns his gaze to me. "Taking a much larger opponent head-on. Not that it wasn't also very impressive..." 

"I used to be a wrestler," I explain, "I fought larger opponents all the time."

"Life and death is a different matter. Like aether... The margin of error... Is so small." 

"Flaere had an interesting question," Ryker pipes up. "So, what does a lazy addict like you think it takes to be a seraph?" 

Patch's head lolls. His smile is like his smoke: sickly sweet, "What a humdrum question; you don't have to  _ be _ anything in particular, you just  _ are  _ what you  _ are _ . You see, dear?" Then it turns tart - mischievous. "But if you must know, the only thing you are going to need around here is a  _ strong stomach _ ." 

I swallow hard.

Ryker is clearing his throat of the narcotic vapor. "Yeah, I'll say... Have you seen Zen around?" 

I'm not sure how Patchouli could see much of anything beyond the sheesha's miragescape, but he lifts a graceful finger. 

We follow his direction to the bar. My face blanches. I start to drag my feet.  _ He can't possibly mean _ \- Because I have just caught sight of the giant towering over the bar. Built of dark teak, his legs are like tree trunks, arms folded over a barrel chest, like one of the wrestlers I would have fought for Ruger.  _ He is so tall _ ... That it takes a few seconds for my gaze to climb him to the open book balanced on his fingertips. He regards it intently as he twirls the stem of a pair of reading glasses between his fingers and chews distractedly on the end. The glasses are joined behind his neck with a thin, beaded thread. All the way on top is his most disarming feature: a head of tightly wound fandango curls piled at the summit of a well-manicured fade. My stride loosens up again.

"What do you make of this passage?" We are close enough to hear him asking the bartender. "The class commentary it creates between Quixote and Sancho?" But the bartender doesn't answer. He's looking at us. 

I remember those eyes; when I locked with them over the shoulder of another man.  _ Adrian Quicksilver.  _

"Zen, this is the guy I was telling you about!" Ryker jostles my shoulder, redirecting my attention. "Gemini, meet Taurus." Now the giant is regarding me with brown eyes that can hold the same interest for someone like me as they did for his novel. 

In fact, Zen snaps the book shut between his thumb and forefinger to exclaim, "A tragedy worthy of the bard: we haven't been formally introduced!" He extends a large hand which completely eclipses my own in a handshake. "Zenzel Philani, Assistant Professor of Literature at Clear University." 

Ryker whispers impishly behind a hand. "Tenure track, don't forget it." 

I'm confused, and not just by all the titles which have been thrown around. 

"Wait, if you're a professor, then why do you work here?" 

The big man's lips tweak. "Ah, funding for the arts. The greatest work of fiction of them all." 

"And this is-" Ryker is pointing at the empty space where the bartender once stood. I catch him at the other side of the bar, shoving his way through the swinging partition in a huff. Ryker lets out the rest of his breath in a sigh. "Well, that  _ was  _ Adrian." 

"I don't think he likes me very much."

"Don't mind him," Zenzel says sympathetically. "He's been going through a hard time ever since Nova... Well..." The big man draws in a narrow stream of breath, seeming to regret even bringing it up. 

"Died!" Ryker pipes up helpfully. 

Zenzel drops the spectacles, letting them bounce on his chest. "Yes, thank you Ryker," he regards the simpler man with rueful eyes, "That's the word I was looking for, although not quite the sentiment."

"Hey Zen, what do you think it takes to be a seraph?" 

"Ah!" The spark reignites in the tall seraph's eyes. "A fine question... I would have to say, that above all else, it takes  _ strength _ ." He closes his hand into a fist and draws it to his chest. 

_ Guts _

_ A strong stomach. _

_ Strength.  _

I grapple with them in my head, trying to apply them to myself as if they are all just stickers. They don't fit... Why don't they  _ fit?  _ Oh nothing ever fits...

_ "Welcome back,"  _ says Hunter, sounding amused. 

_ To where?  _

_ "Why, exactly where you started, of course."  _

The ringing of a bell interrupts our conversation. The pure white form of Esper whisks into the room, declaring, "Schedules are in!"

Stella squawks, "Rrrawk! Schedules!" She whistles as if summoning us. The marker squeaks cheerfully in Esper's hand as he writes on a whiteboard - I get lost in the graceful loops of his penmanship for so long that it takes me a while to realize he's writing names in a grid of masking tape. Each cell corresponds to a time slot. I read the top row and complete the shortened names in my head: ESP(er), MAT(teo), RY(k)E(r), PAT(chouli), ZEN(zel), A(d)RI(an).

"You stuck me with that developer again?" Ryker complains loudly, 

"You don't enjoy his company?"

"He's  _ weird _ , Esper. He recites the digits of pi until he reaches orgasm," Ryker mutters, "So not that many..."

Zenzel  declares, "A disappointment, twofold!" 

Esper smiles sympathetically. "He asked for you by name, Ryker. He told me you were the best he's ever had." 

Ryker reconsiders, folding his arms slowly. He tosses a few jagged sections of blonde hair. "Well, at least his calculations were correct. And he does have a pretty big  _ hard drive _ if you know what I mean." He flashes a toothy grin. 

"So plenty of RAM." Patchouli teases.

I can't ease into the conversation because I've just realized that the names in the grid are all clients. The streets were...  _ Unpredictable. _ But this is an unrelenting gauntlet of sexual encounters, one after the other: a literal congo line of cocks at the door! Maybe there was some mercy in being taken by surprise, after all...

Matteo's accusation echoes in my head:  _ Think you're too good to spread your legs, do you? _

_ "You want to know what it really takes to be a seraph?"  _ Hunter muses,  _ "Allow me to demonstrate."  _ It's almost too easy for him to snatch control right out from under me like a rug.

"I want a client," he says abruptly. 

Everyone is looking at us in surprise. Esper begins carefully. "Flaere... Are you sure? I thought you weren't ready." 

"Oh, I'm sure." 

_ "What are you DOING?!"  _ I demand. 

Esper turns back to the board. "I suppose we could..." He reaches up on his tiptoes to add a new name: 'FER'.

Ryker frowns, looking between me and the new addition on the board. "Are you sure he's ready?" 

"Don't you worry about me," Hunter says coolly. He tosses our ponytail. "If I could sleep with you I could sleep with anyone."

I see the hurt in Ryker's eyes. 

_ "Hunter, stop it; he said he was sorry!" _

_ 'He used us. Like everyone else.'   _

"This is Flaere's decision. If he thinks he's ready, I know he will do wonderfully." Esper lavishes us with encouragement. He erases one client and adds him to our schedule. "There. We'll start you off with one." 

The angel smiles as he turns back around. "Another night in Harm's Way. Slay it, seraphs!" The silver bell makes a cheerful tinkling noise as he shakes out a dismissal. 

Hunter watches dimly as Esper walks over to us and takes one of our hands, then the other. He looks into our eyes. "What is your name?" 

Hunter stares at him oddly. "Flaere."

"Oh no, I know you." A comforting squeeze. "The second face of Gemini. What is your name?" he asks again. 

Our heart suddenly seems loud, pounding in our chest. "It's... It's Hunter."

"Hunter... It's a privilege to meet you, Hunter." Like a one-two punch, the sound of his own name in someone else's mouth compacts our chest. Hunter drops his face rather than let Esper catch a glimpse of a real emotion. "Are you sure you're ready for this?"

"I'm not the one you should be asking," Hunter's voice sounds gravelly. 

"I think you are exactly whom I should be asking." He looks up as Esper touches our cheek. "You've been hurt before... Haven't you?" I wonder how he sees through us so easily.

"Not like Flaere." 

"No..." Steady sky blue eyes pick us apart as if with very precise tweezers, but he does it so gently that we barely realize it. "It's a different type of pain. One that stems from pride. The same pride which makes you hesitate now." 

Conflicted feelings contort in the pit of our stomach while Hunter fights to reconcile what we are being made to do with the angel who is making us do it; all of it rises to twist our expression.

"There is nothing shameful in this work, Hunter," Esper tells us, "You have  _ dignity. _ "

And we... We start to  _ believe  _ him. 

"You are a cruel master," Hunter spits at last.

"I only want what's best for you. But you get to decide what that is. Always." Esper touches lips to our forehead. 

Only after Esper's heavenly body has left our orbit do I venture the word,  _ "...Hunter?"  _

He ignores me, focusing instead on the shadow lingering at the whiteboard. He storms toward it, demanding, "What are you doing?!" 

Matteo is erasing the client on our schedule. "Hmm?" He glances at us as if he's never seen us before. "Oh, nothing important." Then he's scribbling in a new name. "Just trading a client with you. _Seraphs_ do it all the time. That's not going to be a problem, is it?" Matteo turns around, balancing a gloved hand on his hip while he flicks the pen back and forth between his fingers. "I mean, you could bring it up with Esper." 

"No." Hunter is ice cold. "It's not a problem at all."

_ "Hunter!" _

Matteo beams. "Great! Have fun tonight,  _ Flaere _ ."

"Bitch," he breathes in Matteo's wake. "I'm going to kill him, if that's alright with you."

_ "Hunter, quit joking around; you have to tell Esper,"  _ I plead with him.

"If we went crawling to Esper every time someone tugged your ponytail, he might as well leash us and call us Fido," Hunter grumbles. He reads the name on the whiteboard, but it isn't even a name.  

'CATCH ME OUTSIDE' 

That's all it says.

Hunter narrows his eyes. 

 

On the curb with our arms crossed, we glance around. The minutes ticked by, then they torrented until I no longer have any idea how long we've been standing here.

"Surprise, surprise, we have been taken for a ride again," muses Hunter, "Ironically enough, by _not_ being taken for a ride. Oh, the Fates have a sense of humor." Before we can return to the chateau, darkness closes over our head. 

"What-!" Fabric scratches at our face - desperate fingers clutch at it, making out the bag wrapped over our head! Moments before arms pin our own in place, wrenching them back by the elbows. The cold steel of handcuffs. Hands - too many hands - fight Hunter's struggles for freedom. The moment he realizes he can't win this, Hunter deserts, thrusting me back to the forefront; hurling my face to the cloth as I scream, " _ Let go! _ Let go of me who  _ are _ you?"

I hear the growl of a vehicle pulling to a stop at the curb nearby and the sound of a door opening. Car exhaust lays a lash of hot air across my bare thighs and then the hands are compressing me into the backseat. "Where are you taking me?!"

 

###

 

My cuffed arms are looped around the backrest of a chair in what may as well be a black hole. Dark and silent, save for the sound of my own breath; I stew in my own dread and anticipation as I recycle air in the itchy fabric of the bag. 

As if granting a wish, the bag is suddenly whipped off my head. Caught between wanting to suck in a lungful of air and heave it up in a gasp, my mouth hangs open, soundless, gaping across a poorly lit table. A man sits across from me, hands folded. He sits just far enough from the dirty yellow circle of light that it only illuminates the top layer of his features. The black police jacket he wears. The most prominent contours of his face. And a glimpse of dark hair. They come together in my head as if in a satanic summoning ritual... 

"Do you believe in demons?" asks Damon Black. 

I whisper, "No." But I'm not sure if it was in reply to his question. 

"Well I don't believe in ghosts and yet here you are." The cop shrugs. A photo slides across the table to me: a face that I never thought I'd see again, bloated and disfigured as it peers from the remains of a destroyed restaurant. A green eye pierces the film to stare straight at me.  

An involuntary sob escapes me.

"No," Damon goes on, examining a fingernail. "I only believe in evil people who do evil things." The yellow catches a flash of grinning teeth. "Takes one to know one." 

  
  



End file.
